


Deep Calls to Deep

by Blue Rose (HailsRose)



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Blood and Gore, Dissociation, Dreams and Nightmares, Experimentation, Gen, Gen Work, Imprisonment, Magic, Unethical Medicine, Vivisection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:33:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22874053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HailsRose/pseuds/Blue%20Rose
Summary: Fear is the destroyer of men, it bleeds humanity dry and dissolves love into ashes. So Vergil convinced himself never to feel fear, never to feel love. But when the Order of the Sword imprisons him under the guise that he is a divine blessing from their savior and must drain him of everything he's worth, he is forced to confront both emotions from unexpected sources, leading him to seek answers about his blood and power he'd never thought of before.
Relationships: Nero & Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 77
Kudos: 138





	1. Dazed

**Author's Note:**

> Deep Calls to Deep AKA I make Vergil suffer. No regrets.
> 
> As a side note, because I don't want anyone to freak out, you'll notice the only archive warning here is **Graphic Depictions of Violence.** It's par for the course for my writing and for Devil May Cry as a whole. The rating at the moment is teen for swearing, violence, and some gore, though it might be liable to change if I think it's merited. (This has almost never happened for my writing, thus the side note.) 
> 
> If you noticed the relationship tag has **Vergil & Nero** in it, then without spoiling anything, this fic centers on Vergil 90% of the time but Nero shows up around chapter 6. I tell you guys this because I shared this concept with a distant friend and because they didn't have context details, they immediately assumed some pretty dark things about this piece. I want to assure you guys, there is **NO Rape/Non-Con or Sexual Violence/Themes** of any kind, not even implied. This fic is safe from topics like that, I can write about some dark things but not that dark.
> 
> That being said, I hope this precautionary has set some solid boundaries for you guys to understand.

**Fortuna, Early Spring.**

**In the blaze of dusk.**

Vergil makes a freakish amalgam of noises—wet rasping covered up by primal hissing and growling that splits the evening air. He thrashes around like a wild animal, unbroken, untamed. A Supreme Order Knight cuffs the back of his head with their sword’s pommel, it’s impact causing a dull flower of pain to bloom on his skull. A deep rage swells inside of him like the icy, frothy churning of a stormy sea. He lunges at the knight with a viciousness saved for do-or-die fights, pins them to the ground, and nooses them with the chains binding his wrists. 

Their colleagues scrabble at his shoulders and arms, trying to wrestle them free but to no avail. 

Even imprisoned Vergil is a force to be reckoned with. 

The knight’s hood torn away reveals their face steadily becoming a bluish pale color. He doesn’t delight in killing humans but if he takes one or two of their lives while he’s fighting for his, there won’t be fragment guilt for it. His plans are brought to a halt when a liquid mixture crashes onto him and sends his nerves screaming—the same liquid mixture they prepared to trap him. Curtains of steam pour away from him, swirling amid the commotion. The smell of something burning reaches his nose. Reluctantly, he lets go of the knight and collapses. The others half-drag half-shove him down the corridor, barking orders at one another while Vergil struggles to regain his breath and physical autonomy. 

Someone jerks the manacles around Vergil’s wrists down and readjusts them while he’s enmeshed in a haze. They squeeze and chafe uncomfortably, rubbing his skin raw. Though it won’t matter, he’s fought in far worse conditions. Once he recovers, it’s over for these fools.

Faintly, his mind collects the tighter grasp a pair of Holy Knights have on him as the sounds of the fracas fade away. For approximately two seconds, a deceptively peaceful feeling falls on Vergil, honeyed calm sweet-talking him into submission. He breaks free outside two towering doors with Sparda’s legacy carved into them. He gives a disgusted snarl as they plunge inside, to a small council of veiled higher-ups steeped in the golden glow of the sunset, marble statues unweathered as the church windows cast ornate shadows on the floor where they’ve immobilized him. 

Vergil stubbornly looks at the ground but the voice and vicar of Sparda isn’t having it and with a single hand motion, a knight forces Vergil’s head up by his hair. He glares with as much venom as he can summon, bearing his teeth to show his fangs. He’ll bite anyone who approaches. Unfortunately, that doesn’t deter a gloved examiner from practically fondling his face. They move quickly, checking the top of his head, ears, eyes, moving down to pry his jaw open and press a thumb against the roof of his mouth. He acts on his threat. The examiner steps back abruptly with a yelp, shaking their hand to deter the sting. They look a good combination of surprised and amused. 

“Well?” The vicar asks impatiently. How he doesn’t have a crick in his neck from looking down on Vergil, he doesn’t know. 

The examiner patiently extends a hand toward Vergil’s chest and holds the amulet up to look at it. The only thing keeping Vergil from trying to bite them again is the fact that his captors are learning how rigid to keep his constraints. 

“He has the Yamato,” His examiner says. Vergil’s instinct is to immediately search the room for his beloved weapon, to listen for it calling to him. But it is accursedly silent. “And the amulet. His features and abilities meet the criteria, so I wouldn’t doubt this is a son of Sparda.” 

“That is all I need to hear,” The vicar waves them off but doesn’t approach, as if he thinks himself far too important to get involved in the dirty work. “Hear me, son of Sparda. Your presence here is a blessing among our people. You will exist to give us strength. How fortunate to serve such divine purpose.” 

“How preposterous,” Vergil grinds out, scornful loathing dripping from his words. “I only exist to give myself strength.” 

The vicar only smiles. Something dark and evil festers inside him, the arrogance of man and god complex piled together into something sentient and wanting absolute power. Red hot snakes wriggle into Vergil’s stomach, bringing life to pride and insult and resentment. 

With another hand wave, the vicar sends him off. The Holy Knights lead him through twisting and turning hallways smothered by vain, flattering portraits of past sovereigns—each name preceded by _His Holiness_ —and artifacts of notoriously priceless value. They slip underneath arches and between hidden passages that grate open. Vergil fights them every inch of the way, refuses to become a weapon cheapened for their whims and fulfillment. As a son of Sparda, he has a greater cause than this beyond the burden of his human blood.

He victoriously headbutts the knight on his left. 

He makes a choked noise, blood gushes from his nose. A hint of satisfaction follows as it stains their perfectly pressed white uniform. The other knight swears and snaps at his compatriot to get it together, that they can’t afford to mess this up. With a grim nod and working past Vergil’s relentless grappling, he seizes Vergil with both hands, ignores the injury, and they yank him into the next room. It’s decorated only by computers and copious amounts of control panels. Electric coils slither across the floor, blinking lights accompany archaic runes and wards designed for sealing things of Sparda’s magnitude. A singular scientist practically waltzes into the room, swinging and swaying to an unheard song. His grey eyes land on Vergil with hunger. His lips curl into a greedy smile as his massive frame comes to a stop beside the machinery. 

“Well, well,” He sings. “I take it this is the supposed devil that gossip has spoken of?”

“It is, sir,” the knight with the clean face answers. “A son of Sparda.”

The scientist grins and claps his hands in a display of repulsive glee. “Excellent! I’ll have to design some tests for him immediately.”

He pauses. The way he looks at the trio turns Vergil’s innards around. 

“You.” He points at the knight with the bloody face. “You start strapping him down. Once you’re done...“ His nose wrinkles. “There’s a first aid kit in the next room. Take care of _that. Quickly!_ ”

Vergil, for all his exhaustion, continues to resist. When the chains come off, he jumps at the scientist in an attempt to claw his face off. He crashes into the machinery as the bastard gracelessly slides to avoid the attack and falls onto his rump. A screeching cacophony of metal stridently tearing and broken wires spouting off showers of yellow sparks pervades the laboratory. The knights holler, clambering over the shambles and one another to catch him. He slips out from between their fingers, backhanding the first into a galvanic hazard and kicking the other down so they crack their head against the tile. The scientist scrambles away, blindly flailing a hand behind him in search of something. 

Vergil’s inner demon howls, scratching at his ribs, lungs, and heart with unearthly vehemence like a beast that outdoes wolves and bears. It demands to be set free. He is more than willing and it consumes him. Scales crawl from the tips of his fingers, fluorescent blue streaks around him, thinly whistling slivers of his power. Silver horns push out of his flesh, wreathed in fire. His vision is suddenly bathed in a magnificent green hue, completely inhuman. His tail darts out, the argent plates rattling menacingly, so loud it drowns out the rest of the clamor. His Devil Trigger is sleek and beautiful, unmatched by any other being and unchallenged if his opponents are smart. 

“F-F-Fa-Fascinating!” The scientist marvels, still on course. Vergil approaches with slow, measured steps, taking the time to analyze what he’ll rip apart first as vengeance. “Such incredible strength, a completely flawless convergence of man and devil.” 

“Your flattery will not save you,” Vergil seethes. His voice sounds as though it’s been thrown in a blender with a handful of nails but it has a distinct demonic edge that disturbs the senses. “You die here.” 

Vergil raises a claw, flashing his incisors. The world moves in slow motion, goading him to finish the scientist off, to rip out his throat, make it hurt and make it rain blood. Nothing is more annoying than the continued existence of filth. He slashes downward, time and space rending as he aims for pulsing arteries. 

A stream of white powder exhaust hits his face and he drops to the floor coughing and wheezing. His Devil Trigger evaporates into thin air. The scientist returns to his feet and towers over Vergil, waving around a transparent hose attached to a small canister no doubt full of something meant to subdue demons. He exudes smugness similarly to how a bird of paradise flaps their surplus of vibrant feathers: shamelessly and pompously. He snaps his fingers, ordering the toppled knights to move with a dampened voice. No comprehensible words filter through Vergil’s hearing. He can’t make out what they’re saying to each other. 

For the first time in five years, he’s introduced to an old, unforgiving sensation.

 _Fear._

Cold, clawing fear that rakes its nails down his spine. 

His arms move against his own volition as he’s maneuvered onto his back and held down. He’s coming out of it quickly but not quickly enough. Something clear and containing is jammed against the lower half of his face and corded around his head. 

_‘An oxygen mask,’_ Vergil thinks cloudily as he attempts to pull away. Like the ones from those sad movies about hospitals his parents used to watch when he was little. But his gut tells him whatever is in this canister is not so friendly. He tries for a growl but a pitiful whine escapes him instead and heat creeps up his cheeks. 

“Easy now,” The scientist says gravely. 

A squeak, a hiss, cool mist enters his mouth and lungs. 

“Sleep.” 

Vergil is tired—tired from fighting, tired from living, tired from traveling, searching for answers, watching the sun and moon rise and set in their cycle. Sleep sounds so appealing. If he could close his eyes and let sleep envelop him without the threat of demons mauling him or nightmares haunting him, then perhaps he might allow himself this weakness. Opportunities like this came so rarely. The honeyed voice from earlier returns, promising him stillness and quiet, coaxing him into the arms of merciful slumber. It sounds vaguely like his mother’s. 

He blinks, his eyelids droop. Darkness sidles at the edges. 

_“Sleep.”_

He inhales sharply, gives a final, half-hearted nudge against the weariness and his captors, promising to withstand to the bitter end. 

Then, he falls under. 

**\---**

Vergil jolts into the waking world feeling like he’s going to hurl. His eyes shoot open, he sits upright and slaps a hand over his mouth. He hasn’t been nauseous in ages, his demonic blood won’t allow it. Yet the emetic sensation rolls around, acid climbs in his throat, and he works on keeping it down. He hugs his abdomen and leans over, breathing in controlled doses and counting seconds as his parents taught him.

_Breathe in._

One, two, three four.

_Hold._

_Out._

Five, six, seven, eight. 

His neck stings. He smoothes a palm over his nape, feeling for the risen skin that forms an unorthodox pattern he can’t perceive through touch alone. He winces as it warms and tingles unpleasantly under his fingers like dancing pinpricks. 

Bit by bit, he begins to absorb pieces of his surroundings, cataloging his location. It’s straight out of a fairy tale. A damp, unlit dungeon with paved, concrete floors separated by a row of iron bars with no discernable weak points. He checks, he has no other option. A single pipe runs across the top, rusted from years of neglect. There are no windows to neighboring cells or the outside world and the walls are too thick to break through without a weapon. 

Vergil tugs at a loose thread on the colorless scrubs the Order has changed him into for whatever reason, sighing discontentedly as his situation sinks in. He absently reaches for his amulet, aching for the comfort of a home that no longer exists, only to find that it’s no longer there. Panic settles into his bones as he hastens to search for it, sweeping the cell to make sure he didn’t haphazardly drop it while sleeping— _stupid, how could he be so stupid_ —or that it isn’t misplaced anywhere else on his figure. Much to his horror and untamed fury, he can’t find it and there’s one possibility to describe its absence. 

The Order took it. 

Of course, they took it. Why wouldn’t they? It’s a mystical artifact gifted to the lovely, late Eva from Sparda himself. Anything that has to do with their precious, omnipotent— _and uncontestedly dead_ —savior is priceless and must be stored somewhere safely, preserved for their avaricious intents. Becoming just another piece of the devil to hang up for decoration. Reduced the same way Vergil has been. The kind of anger he swims in has no name and cannot be described with words, he’s never experienced it so strongly before. 

He’s already lost the Yamato. He can temporarily be without it so long as he spreads out his demonic senses and searches for it, her unparalleled voice calls out loud and lucid, obstinate when she’s not in her master’s hands. Vergil has faith he’ll get the Yamato back. His amulet, however…

Vergil squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead against the barred door of his cell. 

His amulet has no voice of its own, it cannot sing or insist on an owner, it requires an outlet for its abilities to flow through (given Vergil actually figures those abilities out.) It’s a brilliant red ruby implanted into gold and meant to lie on the breast of one who carries Sparda’s blood. On its own, it’s nothing. 

Vergil can’t sit here and wait for something bad to happen to it. With a metaphorical kiss hello to his paranoia, he begins pacing the length of the cell, glowering daggers at its supposed invincibility. He can figure this out, he’s not helpless and he’s dismissed any plan that includes waiting. 

The sooner he escapes, the better. 

He inhales, backs up against the far wall, and throws himself against the bars of his cage. 


	2. Hissing Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Order begins their experiments and Vergil makes them realize he more than he's worth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to have this up before noon MT but I ended up rewriting the first few paragraphs because they were in desperate need of it. It's up now, though, so fret not! 
> 
> Classic warnings for blood and violence this chapter, by now you should know the drill.

In much the manner a nervous wreck wears circles into their carpeted floors or a hummingbird flits from place to place, Vergil cannot hold still. Again and again, he battles with his containment, adamant that between the two of them, he is more stubborn and it will yield before he does. His body doesn’t require rest or nourishment, wounds heal in seconds, he is superior in every way. This logic fuels him as much as each raucous clatter against the cell door does. 

Vergil crouches down, a perforating glare angled at the bars as he composes his energy for another charge when a distant door screeches open. The military march of several knights echoes in the aisle, so orderly they can pass for the steps of one being. He tenses as a small militia appears outside his cell, emotionless aside from whatever discipline they’re trained to display, except the one furthest in front, who smirks, too pleased as he twirls a ring of keys around his pointer finger. Freedom, Vergil latches onto that caprice first. Bloody nose, is second as he recognizes this soldier as the one he headbutted the day before. As soon as the lock twists off and the door swings open, he pounces and is shortly met with their stinging mixture. Creeping irritation disorients him as he drops to the floor, the knight clicking his tongue in a sardonic sort of disapproval. 

Vergil flounders as much as possible—pathetically—while the Holy Knights form a half-circle around him and escort him down the hallway. Outside of the dungeons, it’s so much brighter, the silvery-white of the walls and ceiling sear into his eyes. How anyone can bear the light level is beyond him. 

The Knights lug Vergil through a veil of plastic curtains. The new area isn’t much different in comparison to the rest of the laboratory, save for the fact that it hasn’t been destroyed in his rampage. The Knights slam him down onto the chilled surface of a metal table and strap him in with leather designed to restrain demons, then to add insult to injury they wrestle an oxygen mask around his face and filter involuntary tranquility into his lungs. The coldness doesn’t pull him under, not quite, and he chalks it up to the fact that he’s getting stronger and learning how to endure, not that the Order has lowered the dosage. That’s a good thing, he convinces himself. Though he can’t muster up the will to be angry or fight back, he’ll be able to soon. 

The stuttering scientist strides through the plastic curtain, scribbling something down on a clipboard. He stops as soon as he sees Vergil and the surrounding guards. 

“So all of you _are_ capable of following orders,” He sneers, whatever energy he’d introduced himself with yesterday has dissipated, leaving only a semi-serious grimace and heavy bags underneath his eyes. Vergil doesn’t want to think about what he must have been doing for the past few hours to exhaust him, he doesn’t want to think about how someone so weak could overpower him. “Leave these chambers and return to your posts. I have some tests to run.” 

“Sir, we have orders to stay and supervise,” A brave, young knight protests. “The Supreme General-” 

“ _If the Supreme General_ wants the quickest results,” The scientist says sharply, narrowing his eyes. “Then he will leave me to do my work in peace. Return to your posts.” 

The Holy Knights shift and look amongst one another, debating which of their superiors’ irritation they’d rather face, then they trickle out of the laboratory one by one until only the scientist remains. Vergil swallows, not daring to breathe more than he already has. The scientist’s dour demeanor swings into the pleased side as he gets to work, snapping on a pair of rubber gloves and hovering over an arrangement of tools. He picks up a syringe and twirls it around. Vergil’s veins turn to ice. 

Absolutely not. 

He tenses his muscles and wiggles around, trying to pull out of the straps. He forbids them from taking his blood, he won’t let them. He huffs and pulls harder which seems to amuse the scientist as he steps over. 

“Now, now,” He purrs. “Let’s not make this any harder than it has to be.”

The stinging pinprick of the needle is all the warning Vergil gets before the scientist starts drawing his blood. He wrenches at the straps even knowing the needle could get stuck in his skin, he has a way of scratching it out and healing, it’d be fine so long as he just _gets it out now._ The scientist seems to get a kick out of his behavior and only hums a little song until he has what he wants and removes the syringe. 

“Perfect!” He crows. “I’ll have this analyzed as soon as possible.” 

He places it in a safe cylinder that Vergil suddenly feels the scorching desire to decimate. 

“In the meantime,” He trails off, tapping the cylinder with slow, curious patience. “I want to see just how strong this blood of yours is.”

The scientist moves over to a console and clacks away at several buttons and keys and pulls a lever. Vergil stiffens, pain ricochets across him, starting at the restraints and spreading over each of his nerves like lightning until everything crackles with agony. Cracks begin trailing over him, something significant seeping out between them, flowing to a place he can’t reach. When he tries, he finds nothing but the black, empty abyss contained by the fizz of the laboratory’s equipment. His demonic essence, he realizes with a note of horror, is being drained from him, ingested by an insatiable monster. The very thing he works to keep strong, unbound, and malicious. He grasps at the threads of power, holding it back with desperation. 

They can’t have it, he won’t let them. 

The engine of a nearby machine whines in protest as it wars with Vergil for his power. The scientist grumbles something about unneeded stubbornness, types input into the computer, and grinds the lever. The pain intensifies and his claws jut out of the tips of his fingers, scratching against the table. Vergil can’t tell if it’s because his inner devil recognizes what’s happening and is rising up to protect him or if it’s because the scientist is digging it out through force. 

An alarm bell goes off in his head, warning him of the multiple, harrowing potentials that could come from having it stolen. He seizes a pair of metaphorical hands around his trigger and shoves it down, locks it in a box, and keeps it from coming up. 

His devil roars, enraged that Vergil would deny its bloodlust. A discordant howl whips through him, raising savage threats and goosebumps on his arms and shoulders. Vergil wants to scream back that he’s only trying to protect himself. He’s trying to protect _it._ The silk voice murmurs comforting words to him, telling him it's okay to let go, it’s okay to give up. It’s okay to rest. 

Except it’s not okay. His stupid devil isn’t where he wants it to be and the other more human voice is spouting off moronically, he won’t listen to either and he won’t forfeit control. He comes alert, jerks his head just enough to get the mask away from his mouth, and with an irate growl, he wrenches his powers back in. The Order, his inner devil, the silk voice. They could all be damned, he’s more resilient than they are. 

The machine squalls like the throttled vocal cords of a demon before going up in a shower of sparks. The scientist squawks and scuttles back in terror. As if Vergil could will it, the foundation of the laboratory quakes, swells of electricity ebb and flow, causing the lights to gutter violently on and off. Glass beakers and tubes shatter like exploding stars, spraying myriads of fluids across the floor. Metal grouses, bends, and breaks like the joints of an old god meeting its end. Destruction and despair flood the room, unbidden, unstoppable, rising to consume everything with a ravenous appetite, sinking its teeth into everything—living and nonliving. 

Then it stops. Just as suddenly as it started. Bulbs burn out, the current whirs away, and a blanket of pitch-black coats the room. 

The only sound for a handful of seconds is the heavy panting that burns Vergil’s lungs. 

A groan works its way out of him before he can stop it. He swears he’s only grown more tired. That should, in some way, stoke the embers in him to a raging fire but in the few hours the Order has had control of him, they’ve managed to take even that. 

**\---**

Of the Holy Knights privy to his existence, few of them can keep to themselves as he’s walked somewhere new. The older ones pretend to be unbothered but he can feel their scrutiny on him, the younger calibur whispers amongst each other, having not yet learned how to treat their supposed blessing. 

He is a _Son of Sparda._

He killed three knights before he’d been captured. 

He eviscerated one of the lab assistants. 

He destroyed the entirety of lab section one.

His strength is _frightening._

Most of those whispers flatter him, maybe a little too much. Exaggerated though they may be, he prefers it that way. When he sees the awe of a singular junior knight who obviously isn’t supposed to have their hood off, he silently preens. On any normal occasion, he’d loathe attention. Right now, his pride feeds off their fear and admiration. It’s good to know that there are a select few who know how to respect their savior’s progeny. 

The same can't be said for the higher-ups. The Order hates him for his little stunt. It doesn’t show, at least not on the majority’s faces but his escorts kicking him to the ground and the scientist’s jabs about him to the vicar is enough indication. Vergil spares a glance at the two holding the front. 

The vicar looks cheery but to his left, a tall man with sharp eyes glances away, shakes his head, then returns to the exchange. He shares a judging stare with Vergil, not at all intimidated by him. In his head, he might have been underestimating Vergil, sizing him up as a child. 

_‘Little old him? Cause this much damage?’_

The possibility annoys him a bit. He continues glaring, choosing that over pursuing the thought for useless quarry. He wouldn’t have gotten a chance to anyway because unfortunately, he catches the tail end of the vicar’s nonsense. 

“This is a mistake on my part,” The vicar says hoarsely. “I have been foolish to assume that our savior would just _give us_ his power.” 

_Oh?_

Vergil doesn’t want to get his hopes up. However...

“This is a test from the heavens above, we must earn the ability to put it to use. We must become worthy of it.”

_Damn._

“I trust you can find a way to make that happen?” The unnamed man finally speaks from his prolonged quiet, his question more of a dare than an actual question. 

The scientist doesn’t reply for a hot second. He shifts from one foot to the other. 

“I will see that it-t-t is done.” 

Vergil doesn’t prepare himself adequately for what that means and moments later he’s hustled through a sliding door into quarantine. Or at least somewhere that looks like it. They had the common decency to remove his cuffs beforehand but it does nothing to diminish the pervasive impression of being more trapped than when he was in the cell. He moves to his feet and into fighting position, anticipating the Order’s next move against him. 

His impatience isn’t rewarded. Rather he’s cast to his own thoughts and the opportunity to lessen his weariness. He patrols the quarantine’s perimeter, finding it’s much more spacious than his cell, and the polished steel floor sends static through his feet with each step. He can’t stop. Righteous anger is otherwise keeping him warm. 

The Order’s aims to experiment on him are either highly brave or highly stupid. Vergil leans more towards the latter. They refer to him as a divine blessing from their savior yet throw him in their dungeons, take his amulet, clothes, and dignity, and they remove Yamato’s presence from him all under the guise that it’s what his father wants. Then they replace their thievery with abject shame and humiliation and the yawning emptiness in his core where they have succeeded in slicing out a segment of his power. Vergil presses a palm flat against his abdomen, calling to the space where that power should be. There’s a weak answer like the mew of an abandoned and starving kitten. 

Vergil’s blood boils. For everything he’s owed, for everything that’s missing thanks to prying fingers. He wheels around, gathers his power, and smashes his fist into the closest wall, leaving a decent-sized dent. 

The Order’s illusions of what respect he deserves are nothing but unrepentant torment. If they truly saw him as divine, they’d be lavishing him with praise, luxury, opulent living quarters, and gourmet meals. A pity however that such indulgence is mostly lost on him. He wouldn’t have bothered even if they had offered. He didn’t come to Fortuna to be worshipped but for knowledge of his father’s deeds and the uprising against the Underworld. 

Those thoughts don’t exactly temper him but at least his emotions are curbed now. He can direct his restless energy into doing something useful like finding a way out. Or perhaps, fighting off the hordes of demons coming for him. 

He blocks the first attack with his arm, cursing himself out for not noticing their presence sooner. How could he be so near-sighted? To miss when a giant lizard manifests in the room due to his own frustration? He’s supposed to be ready constantly, always on his guard, a moment’s notice away from unsheathing the Yamato. Except he doesn’t have Yamato this time, does he? 

Blood spurts from his arm. Rows of pointed fangs clamp down harder at the taste. Vergil grits his teeth, wincing as a spike of pain wiggles through his muscles and bones, digging deep until it receives satisfaction. A burst of demonic power discharges in the demon’s mouth and it rears back, smacking into its partner, which snaps its jaws irritatedly. 

Assaults. With shields. What a nuisance. 

With no weapon in Vergil’s immediate vicinity, he resorts to morphing into his Devil Trigger. He’ll need all the increased shielding and movement he can get. He doesn’t even give a notice of his onslaught, he just tears into them, exertion mixed with incensed screams, metal scraping whenever one of them lands roughly, scratching and kicking like a rabid dog. More than once, Vergil rights himself on all fours, feral and desperate. 

Losing isn’t an option but every once and awhile, he believes he should just take it. If he’s dead, then nothing else can be stolen from him. 

But then he remembers the Order’s intentions, how they won’t stop until they’ve stolen everything from him, of him, until there’s nothing left. Not even his soul. He wants power, more than that he wants revenge and dying out of spite is no way to exact it. They need to suffer for the things they’ve done to him and he’ll live to damn well make sure it happens. 

He launches back into the fight, imagining the first is the scientist and the second is the vicar. Every strike against these demons is a strike against them. It fills Vergil with more strength and an incredible gratification that drives him to fight harder and harder until he can shove a hand through the demons’ bodies, crush something necessary, and kill them. They fall to the ground in an awkward heap, ash crawling over their forms until they’ve dissolved into a ruddy stain on the floor. 

Gore and ichor paint Vergil into a masterful artwork. **_Red._ ** Passion, danger, aggression. Adrenaline surging through him, clashing swords. 

Mutedly, he hears someone clapping, commending his victory. 

Vergil thinks he’ll kill them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Hailsyy) for writing updates, shenanigas, and DMC overall.


	3. Rusted Key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergil makes his first escape attempt and pays the price while Dr. Agnus begins preparation for a new experiment.

There are exactly two Order Knights intrepid enough to hose Vergil down and change his clothes, he might have showered them in sarcastic praises if he didn’t have murder on the brain. He killed their acclaimed ally, he supposes it’s respectable they commit at all. Still, it’s only the beginning of his retaliation, for every attempt they have at his demonic power, he’ll eliminate another life. 

Three days later, he mauls a researcher and her expression as the knights drag her away while she's shrieking that he’s _‘an evil demonic brat’_ is priceless and he wouldn’t trade the experience for diamonds and pearls. Perhaps his pride is getting the better of him in these cases but who can pester him with worrying about it when he's been keeping the hairpin he tore out of her weave in his mouth for the past two hours? 

_‘I didn’t even hurt her,’_ Vergil thinks as he jiggles the pin in the lock. _'That much.’_

So there might have been blood streaking down her face and he might have almost removed her head with a surgical saw but she didn’t have any broken bones and she didn’t need to be buried. She’s dedicated herself to the cause of a vile organization, anyway, so Vergil can argue that she deserves it. 

His breath hitches as the lock clicks. It’s a horrendous, crippled noise but it gives underneath its torturer and clatters to the ground. Vergil takes a few tentative steps outside the cell, wincing when the door wails. The noise is bound to attract any nearby guards, he can’t afford to waste any time. He sprints from the cage and out into the too-bright passageways which blur together, following Yamato's call—silvery, acidic, singing to him a requisition for his certainty. He veers around a corner, nearly slipping into a pipe in the exhilaration pumping through him. 

Revenge and freedom taste so close. Like Yamato slicing so cleanly the sharpness can’t be felt. 

He skids and backtracks a few times, wary of clomping boots, soldiers, and scurrying whitecoats. He counts the second set of stairs he’s dashed up and the fourth vestibule he’s swerved to the end of before smashing into an armed sentry flanked by three others. They each pull out their weapons, the leader advises him not to make this difficult but Vergil can’t hear them, he’s too busy reading his opponents’ durability and postures. Their swords are motorized and designed to tear through demons with ease to make up for their petulant human brawn. But they’re useless if they can’t strike their target. 

Vergil’s entire stance relaxes, a cool smile crosses his lips. For some reason, the leader of the group takes this as a concession and wraps a hand around Vergil’s upper arm. 

“There we go, see? No need for a fight- ghk!” 

Disgusted by the hasty touch, Vergil slings his fist directly into the knight’s jugular. The moment he hits the ground, the others charge for him. He doesn’t even need to draw on his demon powers to defeat them and the fight is over before it truly begins. Their incapacitated groans don’t even follow Vergil as he advances around them and makes a left.

Yamato rings louder the closer he gets to it until eventually, he comes to a stop outside a sealed door. He cracks his knuckles, rears back, and uses his power to blast the door off its hinges. Not waiting for the thundering clangor to die off, he strides inside, purposeful, eyes landing on his weapon. 

“How interesting.” 

Yamato sang in all its shining, magnificent glory, held in the grasp of the stuttering scientist. His lips pull upward malignantly as he runs a gloved finger down the center of her blade. Revolt of the most abhorred form runs shivers over Vergil’s spine— _how dare he lay his grimy hands on Yamato?_

“So you can sense its location,” The scientist drawls. “Though I’ve only encountered a few Devil Arms, I've yet to see one that’s so closely bonded with its wielder. Until today, that is.” 

Vergil snarls something unholy. He doesn’t appreciate being undone in such a way. But what can he do? What kind of risks does he take if he attempts to retrieve Yamato back? The Order has exhibited awe at his possession of one of Sparda’s old arms; they won’t break it if it’s so revered. Will they? With everything that’s happened while Vergil’s been here, how disconcerted they are in their own delusions of their Savior, he isn’t sure of what lengths they’ll go to just to break him. 

_‘How wretched,’_ Vergil thinks to himself. _‘That they have to stoop to such lows to bring me down. Have they no honor?’_

It takes very little contemplation to come to the conclusion that, no, they don’t. He can't bring himself to be surprised. 

Vergil spends too much time thinking about how he’s going to retrieve the Yamato and violently dismember the scientist that when the next sparks of a demon scrape by his senses, he can’t shift out of the way quick enough. Two shark-like demons rupture through the floor and clamp onto his arms with their rows of teeth, wrenching him to his knees. Their luminous bodies ebb and flow as if they’d been hewn from the sinuous waves of a placid sea moments before a storm. Vergil might say he’s impressed with the creativity of these particular demons if they weren’t in the middle of assailing him. 

Vergil bristles like a pissed off house cat, now annoyed more than anything else. If this becomes a common occurrence, he _will_ go ballistic. 

The events that follow come in a ripple of indistinct fogginess. Somewhere between being hauled onto the table and fastened into the restraints again, Vergil becomes certain that those demons must be the source of the tranquilizer they’ve used against him thus far. Yamato’s shrill tone sounds suppressed and frustrated as the scientist sets her aside but underneath it, he can make out bits of her fear. 

Whether it’s fear for herself or fear for him, he doesn’t know. 

He doesn’t want to know. 

But for as long as he stays there, he can feel nothing but the pounding of his heart as it seeks to climb out of his chest and the gelidity of the table gnawing into him. He obeys the instinct to keep fighting as much as possible but in the end, it doesn’t do much. The cloying, desolate space in his center expands, pushing his demonic power out of his hold. He twitches a bit, swallows the saliva building up his mouth, cursing silently his inability to steady himself. 

**\---**

_Peace. Silent peace shattering like the evening sunlight by swarms of knights and their loyal hunting dogs baying in the distance. Leaves rustle, rocks skip over one another, supple boots drum against the forest floor as Vergil bolts between towering trees and snapping jaws. Of all the animals he’s faced in the past, normal canines have never hit the list. He raises the Yamato and bats one aside as he runs, wincing at its pained yelp._

_Vergil has never been a dog person but they’re not inherently evil. Their owners on the other hand…_

_He didn’t expect this much retaliation from them, especially for as little ruckus as he’s caused. Between sneaking around their library and sifting through their archival sources with communication to exactly one insignificant woman, he thought they would have let him tend to his mild curiosity. The mobilizing of their forces suggests otherwise. Thinking optimistically, father’s fanatics couldn’t catch a scarecrow if it did a little jig behind their backs. So he will be fine, he’s going to get out of this unscathed_

_Except Vergil miscalculates. A pair of jaws snap at his right, a knight surges out of the greenery on his left, sword drawn. Vergil brings the Yamato up to brace against the attack. The blow sends him tumbling off a steep drop off, he somersaults into a time bubble and hurtles into a clearing sunken down like a valley, hills inclining on every side. The knights released their hounds to circle him at a swift pace and shrink the boundary._

_So, they were herding him._

_Vergil’s thumb finds Yamato's tsuba and pushes it up as a warning. The other’s weapons are pointed toward him, the knights won’t back down, he’s not raring to go but they’ve given him no choice. He parries the first strike with the sheathe and the second with the blade, jump-flips over the nearest opponent and ceremoniously lets them collide against one another. The third shows a smidge of hesitance, which is all the motivation Vergil needs to disarm him, land a solid punch to his face, then dropkick him and leap back up, no movement or grain of time wasted on mistakes._

_He cocks his leg up and jams his heel into the next knight’s face, swipes at his chest with Yamato’s tip. Red blooms across his uniform as he lies motionless on the ground, it’s unlikely he’ll get up. Another sword slides out of its sheath, clashing against the Yamato on the initial whirl. A pair of stony eyes peer out from underneath the hood, meeting his with unequivocal enmity and resolve. Only one of them would be walking away from this._

_One parry, two thrust, three guard, in and out, around and around, giving no quarter. Vergil’s attention is only briefly bought by the intermittent nipping hound, swiping and growling at them to get away while he focuses._

_Who would ever think a simple jab too far in would have such disastrous consequences? The knight latches onto Vergil's wrist and drives his knee into Vergil’s stomach. The Yamato slips from his hand and the air whooshes out of his lungs just as the knight grounds him. His Trigger singes the hairs at the base of his nape and crawls over his shoulders and arms._

_“Now! NOW!” The Knight roars._

_A trio of other soldiers that Vergil didn’t sense earlier come plowing out of the foliage with vessels of clear liquid. It explodes across his skin, excruciating pain breaking him down while his ears ring and something tears out of his throat—a scream?_

**\---**

_‘Stop it,’_ Vergil scolds himself. None of that matters now. It’s what’s happening at this very moment that he should be focused on, drool leaking past his lips notwithstanding. 

“SIR!” 

The doors bang open as an over-excited researcher skitters in, staggering over their own two feet.

“Dr. Agnus!” The researcher breaks off to gather their composure. “We’ve found one!” 

“A reputable subject?” Dr. Agnus asks in a tone that suggests anything less will merit severe punishment.

Frazzled as they are, the researcher nods their head, mostly contained. 

Dr. Agnus looks as though he might erupt into song. A wide grin cracks his face apart. 

“Marvelous!” He shouts. “Just what I wanted to hear. We’ll get started immediately!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally forgot to update this sooner but here it is! Please forgive me~!
> 
> This chapter is a little more on the filler side of things and I'm sorry about that. But I promise things are going to start picking up soon.


	4. Hollow Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergil is dragged down in panicked unconsciousness and someone from his past soothes his fears.

Dr. Agnus’ plans are left to the imagination—a horrible, dark place that Vergil would rather not dwell in. 

Inky tendrils made of fear and broken dreams creep over his arms and legs, slowly enveloping him, pulling underneath the rolling waves of unconsciousness. He writhes around, clawing uselessly at the blank void. Panic, cruel and raw, punctures a hole in his system and pours through, ravaging him down to the recesses of cardinal hysteria. 

_ Panic,  _ he flails, fingers brushing against the surface of being awake, alive,  _ feeling.  _

_ Panic,  _ unlike any he’s felt before. The threat of being rendered a soulless battery, disgraced, a fate worse than death. 

_ Panic, panic, panic, he’s panicking.  _

_ He’s  _ **_AFRAID._ **

“Hush, my love.” 

Vergil freezes. His mother’s voice, when it touches the air, is as gentle and melodic as he remembers. Warmth blossoms on his shoulder and a tendril comes apart in her velvet hands. He turns to her and the warmth migrates upward as she cups his face and plants a tender kiss on his forehead, his nose, then his cheek. He’s never held to anyone tighter and the hollow throbbing in his chest is suddenly relieved to be in the arms of someone who loves him. 

“Mom…” 

“It’s okay,” She murmurs. She kneels, flowers and wild grass sprouting from the ground where she places her fingertips, encompassing a space in this void where life thrives. Their old, red-roofed home stands, sturdy and unbreakable. “You can rest, love.” 

She beckons him closer, to lie on the soft earth, to relax and  _ breathe.  _ He rests his head on her lap, purring contentedly as she combs her fingers through his hair. He curls up, the child he is, praying she’ll never leave. There’s so much he has to tell her. So much he wants her to know. 

An innocent child's laugh bubbles upward. Vergil shifts, mildly discomforted, wondering about the source. 

“Fret not,” His mother assures him. She gestures, her single movement blessed with grace and poise, out to the field of flowers where vibrant reds, oranges, and purples splash out. A little figure adorned in cream with snowy, white hair picks petaled stems by the fistful and waves them around for Eva to see. “Your brother is only playing.” 

Vergil hums, his chest rises and falls with a relaxing breath. No reason to worry, he can relax here, protected and loved. 

The black tendrils continue coiling up his body, unbothered as they move in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, forgive meeeeeee. I'm running out of excuses but Hanami Week is _right there._ Next week's chapter is much longer, I promise.


	5. Clockwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergil suffers the routine and the nonsensical blather underneath the experimentation of the Order and later receives a strange presence.

Between the countless days under experimentation in the laboratory and the nights alone in the cell, Vergil is plagued with the absurdity that is the Order’s rationale. He never stops hearing about how beholden they are to have him, indebted to Sparda’s generosity, which is good and great and whatever blather they think appropriate to burden him with. It gets to a point where Vergil looks forward to the solitude of the dungeons just so he doesn’t have to listen to how his suffering is all a part of their savior’s plan and it’ll be over soon. 

_‘Please,’_ Vergil thinks helplessly during one particular test that’s sure to change him for the worst. _‘Please, just spare me your bullshit and get it over with.’_

They hook him up to all manner of thin, plastic tubes connected to who knows where while the scientists make him sick with their chemicals. One of them whispers a mix of apologies and vague promises that this won’t take long. They’ve been wrought to do so whenever they’re put in charge of the next lousy procedure. 

“Savior forgive me,” they mumble out and earn themselves a warning look from their partner. They either don’t notice or don’t care because they repeat the phrase again and again until they decide on a singular: “I’m so sorry.” 

They vacate the containment chamber, jumpier than usual. Vergil tilts his head, watching as their white coats flick and vanish behind a barrier. It escapes him as to why they might want to get away, most of Sparda’s worshippers would have broken even their most rigorous of rules just to steal a fleeting glance of him. But he soon finds out. 

The machinery drones to life, the thin sibilation of exhaust valves release, and-

 **_Fire._ ** _Hot and angry and burning courses through him._ It ignites in his blood and scours through to its source, devouring him whole, blazing a cavity. A strangled scream shreds his throat, adrenaline overcomes the tranquilizer they jacked him full of and he sets to yanking out every tube at a dangerous speed. As he lurches free, flinging his palms against the floor, a stinging flies across them. A dull thud slams out. He drags himself forward, frantic, needing to get away, and genuinely terrified for his life before finally collapsing into a lump of misery. 

He convulses, shuddering breaths tearing through him. He twines into a tight ball, arms crossed over his shoulders, knees pulled up to his chest as if shying away will make everything better. As if it’ll summon a protector to his side once more like when evening thunderstorms would chase him underneath the blankets and a mother or father or brother would come to comfort him. 

It hurts. 

All of it hurts.

An announcement blasts out of the speaker system, accosted by static and Vergil’s inept hearing. The remarks that weaponized concoction two-point-zero is a success is frayed around the edges, barely made out but he understands right away what has just happened. The liquid mixture they used back in the forest and in the corridor—they’ve developed a stronger version of it to test on him. 

Not for the last time, he swears he’ll destroy this place. 

It’ll be little more than a pile of ashes by the time he’s done with it. 

* * *

A few weeks later, Vergil begins to understand the routine the Order is subjecting him to. Dusk to dawn, he’s permitted the quietude of his cell to scheme his way out. As long as the sun is out, he undergoes a mix of experiments involving their chemicals and has his power drained, occasionally they'll set him up against other demons to see how the influence affects. Then they return him to a cell to await the repeating cycle. 

He isn’t super enthusiastic about it, which would explain the multiple ways he’s managed to break out of his containment and make a run for the Yamato. Most instances they have it heavily guarded and are constantly moving it around, a surprisingly clever strategy but an inconvenience at most. He can sense the weapon and knows how to navigate to find it, there is no point to these fruitless ventures of theirs. The culmination, however, is nothing but failure on his end due to the evolving mixtures they test on him. He refuses to leave without Yamato or his amulet and while many might see his attachment to such trivial things as a downfall, he still requires their presence. Whenever he goes in search of them, the knights resort to drenching him in their mixture: Angel Tears.

He doesn’t even try hiding his disgust at the term.

Vergil realizes, unfortunately, that he can no longer take the Order with a grain of salt. They’re strong foes. Perhaps that’s where his weaknesses always lay, underestimation of his enemies and reliance on his heritage. 

Tonight, that last one takes a bigger toll on him than he expected. The remnants of his demon moan waveringly, the cruelty of sleep stays just outside his grasp while the weight of exhaustion settles on him at length. Goosebumps rise on his arms. 

It’s shaping up to be a cold night. Without his demonic powers, he’s irrevocably screwed. He depends on them to keep him warm and as a means of not having to pilfer more than necessary while on the run. The thin scrubs he wears do a poor job of keeping the nipping chill at bay, small puffs of air form visible clouds and dissipate in front of his eyes, and raking shivers torment his body. He pushes out a huff, spurred on by the craving for warmth—particularly the kind his dreams provide. He’s undergone so much stress that some subconscious part of him has started depositing him in sweet dreams either just before or after the usual bout of nightmares. Vergil hates it more than anything because he knows the kind of love and safety he wants is lost to the mangled heart of his family’s old home. He can’t have his mother or father again, he certainly can’t have Dante back. 

No. Hell no. 

Not thinking of their sibling rivalry right now. 

He needs to focus.

Vergil strains at the lock. It’s probably enchanted with some anti-demon magic and well, he’s worse for wear on the supernatural front but that won’t stop him. As long as he can sharpen his nails, he can be useful. Not as useful as if he had access to the full spectrum of his powers but some modicum of it at the very least. 

The telltale noise of the door swinging open stops him dead. He relinquishes his hold on the lock and hastens to the back of his cell and slides down to the cobbled floor, pretending, through his ridiculous shivering, to be asleep. He curses himself and his damned frailty, he can’t convince anyone he’s innocuous in this state much less jump the sorry bastard sent to fetch him. 

_‘Why are they coming for me this late?’_ Vergil wonders to himself. _‘This isn’t normal.’_

Normal. As if any of this has been normal from the beginning. Dreadfully, the possibility that they’re almost done using him up and are about to dispose of him materializes. He tenses as the footsteps approach—light and quick, slippered. He cracks an eye open to sate his curiosity. 

_‘Definitely not normal.’_

A slender form comes to a stop outside his cell, a fluffy bundle of _something_ tucked into her arms. He keeps a watchful eye on her every move, from her slight turns to her quiet tiptoeing to the way she glances over her shoulder as if she’s afraid she’ll be caught. A distinct jingling makes him prick up. She has the keys. Before he comprehends, she opens his cell door, places the bundle inside, and locks it back up, scurrying off, none the wiser that Vergil has just witnessed her. Not that he’ll ever bring it up to the Order. 

He waits until he’s sure no one else will appear, a minute, maybe two, then springs to his feet and silently creeps over to the bundle. A muddled part of his brain speculates that this is the preamble to another one of the Order’s tests designed to bring him more grief. The rest reasons that they’re not subtle enough for malice of that capacity and he gives in, running a cautious hand over the bundle. He makes a noncommittal noise and his brows crease together. 

It’s a blanket. Small, thin but remarkably plush, his first contact with the outside world in weeks feels like heaven on his skin. He snuggles his face into it, inhaling a fresh, clean scent as though it’d just been washed. He hasn’t been in the presence of pristinity in so long, not since before he’d been captured. When was the last time? He has to meditate on the question. 

Three Summers ago, in the midst of heavy torrid, when that woman robbed of her innocence took him in? He forgot her name but she made him soup with chicken and wild rice and provided him a cot to read poetry on until the storm passed. Or that family from this previous bleak Winter who he spent the holidays with when the harbor froze over. The two fathers who bickered back and forth while attending to the chores and their daughter who tucked a poinsettia behind his ear. _‘For celebrating,’_ she claimed cheerfully despite there not being much to celebrate. Or- Yes, he remembers now, the bronze-skinned apothecary who whipped up a woodsy elixir tasting ardently of lavender that put him into a restful, deep sleep. When did he meet them? Six months or six years prior? 

His memory keeps failing him. But then, the days have always just melded together. How many years has he spent without the comfort of a roof over his head? Can't he count every instance he's accepted human kindness on one hand? 

A few seconds later his actions catch up with him and though there’s no one to see him, he flushes a pretty pink. Humiliation. That’s what this is. He doesn’t need the sympathy of a human or a handful, he can manage on his own just fine. His fist tightens on the blanket, for a heavy second he debates ripping it into tiny little pieces. But then he can’t hide them all, the Order would know they had a traitor in their ranks, and while he might not care for this mystery woman specifically, he can appreciate the art of self-awareness and sabotage. 

Having become so familiar with his meager quarters, Vergil glances up to the old pipe on the ceiling. He neatly folds the blanket then tosses it up to hang on the pipe just out of view of any observing guards. Then, stubbornly, he bunches up in the corner to preserve his heat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Vergil. 
> 
> You're so cute when you're stubborn.


	6. Human Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergil swallows his pride and upon escape, makes contact with the Order's biggest secret.

Two days later, the pipe in his cell starts going to use again. It creaks when maintenance shuts it off and shrills when it’s on, cycling between the two in thirty-minute intervals. Vergil has no idea of where it goes but he doubts it’s any benefit to him. In fact, he’s sure it’s only going to be a hindrance, what with how obnoxious it is to listen to, and how it certainly doesn’t help the already poor state he’s in. 

_Cold._

_He’s so cold._

His shivers have not subsided since his hold on his demonic powers slackened. Each passing night, he becomes more unable to regulate his body temperature the usual way and his resolve weakens. It feels like cracks are snaking across his skin, splitting it apart in a sensation so harrowing his insides wither. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t spark the firebolt of anger he needs to survive- to fight. Embers of indignation occasionally put out a low flame but it’s the most he can coax. He sucks in a breath and tightens his arms around his knees. He’ll survive. He’s always survived. 

The pipe batters above him as its contents stream through. _’Damn, wretched thing,’_ he thinks. He can’t even be afforded peace and quiet. What a hellish world he lives in. 

Faintly, something lightweight falls and crumples to the floor and Vergil’s attention carries toward the mysterious noise—the blanket. Packed into a pile, collecting dirt in the center of his cage but just as fluffy as when he received it, warm and alluring. He debates with himself, wondering if he should surrender and use it to shield himself from the cold. In the end, he’s admittedly ashamed of how short the internal argument was, and stands from the floor in order to retrieve it. Its fleece feel is just like he recalls despite the smattering of rust it’s gained, which he tries to brush off. He wraps himself in the blanket, breathing a shuddery sigh of relief. At least there are kind people who exist in the world, rare as they are. 

His gaze finds the lock on his cell door. He’s worked stubbornly at it, trying to get free with little progress. Currently, he has nothing better to do and tries for it again. It’s his only option. As he fiddles, the lock sings a tortured song, the pistons laboring and the springs slipping loose. Whether it’s by sheer miracle or the fact that Vergil has gotten used to busting these things to pieces (this is his fifth one, after all), the lock does eventually come apart. The definition of insanity has nothing on him, perseverance and dragging up his powers even when they’re indisposed has gotten him this far. Truth is, lately, they haven’t felt as far gone as he expected them to and he dares theorize that given enough to time to recover, his demon will regain strength on its own. 

Maybe. 

He wants to believe that's the case. 

Vergil slips out of his cell, pulling the blanket further around his shoulders. The path taken to leave the dungeons is ingrained into his memory. Two flights of cobblestone stairs, a rounded, towering structure lined in a similar manner opening onto a pale platform sequestered by a pair of doors. The hinges squeak as he slides through, the hall is pervaded by darkness and vacuity. Everyone save for patrolling guards has left for the night. 

As the door clicks shut, it occurs to Vergil that this is the only time he’s ever been quiet about an escape. To be fair, he doesn’t feel like tangling with any of the knights, he just wants his sword and some undisturbed privacy. 

It’s what he’s always wanted. 

Here, in this hell presenting itself as a laboratory, he’s unlikely to even land close to those. In a twisted way, he has a much-needed break from being hunted, and Vergil has been blessed with a mind clear enough to think given the circumstance he’s in complete isolation. It isn’t the peace he needs but once he’s out of here, he’ll find a way to obtain it. 

The marching beat of a small squad of knights reaches his senses. Vergil goes on high alert. How far has he drifted? For how long? And in this mindless state? He swivels around, searching for a place to a hide, and quite fortunately spots a side door. He doesn’t even bother to check the lock and dives through, shutting it so no one will hear or see him. He presses his ear up to the surface, listening to the footsteps crescendo and fall, their owners oblivious to his hiding place. He gives it a moment, waiting to see if they’ll return. When he’s sure they won’t, he leans his back against the door and lets out a sigh. 

Vergil’s pulse thumps wildly against his neck, blood roars in his ears like a symphonic orchestra caterwauling on their strings. He pinches some time for himself so he can drown the rising fear before it drowns him. The familiar buzz of demonic power rolls over him in a calming wave and only recedes when he’s gathered himself together. It takes longer than anticipated, the ache in his chest doesn’t entirely fade but at the very least, he can manage it. 

As soon as he’s capable of moving, he absorbs the details of the room he’s just shunted himself through. It’s composed of the same steel walls and floors as the rest of the laboratory. Thick electrical cables create jumbling, serpentine patterns over the space, twisting and turning about until there’s almost nowhere to walk. Four massive tubes at least a meter wide stretch from base to ceiling, a bright blue and bubbling liquid flowing through them, bathing the room in its unnatural, unholy color. Behind them, a labyrinth of metal pipes sibilates and runs over every inch of the walls until they coalesce in the center of the room. There, a magic sphere lies with something curious inside. 

Vergil takes a step forward and a sharp sting ricochets across the bottom of his foot. He draws in a breath and backs up, eyes tracing the way a white light zigzags between the wires. By the feel and tinge alone, Vergil deduces it’s an anti-demon seal. This room, he realizes, is trapping something massive. _Something dangerous._

He persists through the maze of wires, ignoring each warning shock the seal delivers. As he tiptoes up to the dome, the curious thing comes into focus—a bassinet trimmed in lace and ribbons and bolted to the floor. 

Vergil brushes his fingers over the glassy surface of the sphere, trying to peer inside. Surely, it wouldn’t actually contain what he thinks it does. Right? 

He searches the exterior of the dome for a way to get inside, he has to soothe the itch to know, to investigate. He can’t- _won’t_ rest until he does. His hand meets a weak spot in the sphere where pressure causes it to circulate inward, water-like coolness rolling over his skin. 

_‘Break it,’_ his mind supplies. He pitches a fist into the weak spot. The sphere gutters and dies, dissipating into a shower of glimmering powder. It twinkles and fades after some measly seconds, leaving nothing impressive to be examined. 

Now unhindered, Vergil steps over to the bassinet, blanket pulled even tighter around his form than before as he slowly peers inside. A wretched cry splits the still air. A baby, only a couple weeks old, wiggles around, jutting its hands out into the chilly expanse. Hands might be a strong word, though. Black scales with a navy sheen cover its tiny fists, glowing fractures on their backs climb up to its wrists and its little feet are in a similar situation. A shock of white fluff sprouts out of its head. Vergil has to resist the urge to make sure it’s the same shade as his. 

He has a sneaking suspicion, one that prickles underneath his skin and gnaws at his senses with irritation. On a whim, his demon slithers past his reserves, mystified by something so small but so full of life. It reaches out to the baby with an invisible claw. His power reaches back. 

All of time feels like it's just halted. The air in Vergil’s lungs evaporates. Deluging nausea roils in his gut, climbing up his throat, spinning his already fragile world on its axis. He presses both palms tight against his mouth as angry tears well up in his eyes, the embers in his core explode into a blaze, hotter than anything Vergil has ever had the misfortune of feeling. 

So this is where his power goes. 

The baby’s wailing cuts through whatever mental spiel Vergil has yet to start on. It has such an anguished, sorrowful undertone that all his boiling rage dwindles down, subdued by anxious sympathy. His demon cries back, though whether it’s out of vengeful passion eager to reap his powers into their rightful place or because it detects the great discomfort this child has and is enduring the same thing, Vergil has no idea. 

He bends down into the bassinet, waving a finger around which the baby latches onto almost instantly. Its grip is tight, the scales glacial to the touch. A mild tingling energy washes over it. Ever-presently, slowly, the loud, pleading cries begin to taper off into hiccupy sobs. Its beautiful blue eyes blink open, a few crystalline tears seeping down its cheeks. Its chest rises and falls so quickly, such immature lungs creating broken, wheezing breaths, and _oh_ , how Vergil’s heart squeezes. He’s never cared for babies before but this one, while not his and only imprinted with his power, there’s something strange about them tugging at his soul. It could just be their same demonic energies, magnetized, and trying to rejoin. It could also be something else and he’s rather of a mind to discern the exact relationship here. It’s knowledge waiting to be gained, vigor anticipating action. 

The baby sniffles, a high-pitched noise of which Vergil’s never heard wobbling out of it. The panting or tears don’t stop but it’s blessedly silent otherwise. Vergil searches the bassinet for an identity, catches a tag, and spares it a cursory glance, not truly reading the scribble. As if it matters, he has something to call the baby. 

“Nero,” He whispers. Aloud, it sends a creeping chill over his shoulders. He’s thankful to have the blanket. “Nero, that’s your name?” 

Nero doesn’t answer, clearly too caught between deciding whether he wants to cry or gawk at this stranger he’s never seen in his whole short life. 

“I know how you feel,” Vergil continues. As he bounces his finger up and down, eying the scales almost eagerly, a wolfish smile crosses his features. He can’t imagine what he looks like right now, beaten down, exhausted but baring his fangs. What a real fright he must be yet Nero doesn’t seem bothered by it at all. “It hurts doesn’t it? It always does in the beginning. It’ll pass soon.” 

Vergil would know. His first few days after death cast its gaze on him in the graveyard were spent in a daze, unable to control when his devil form came and went, operating with jolting movements and needling pain pushing out of every pore. 

“So energetic…” He marvels. Between the routine, the pain, and the isolation, Vergil is perpetually fatigued, not that such a sensation is entirely new with the life he’s lived before this point, so he has to admire Nero’s ability to bawl his exhaustion away. 

After some time talking nonsensically to Nero, Vergil notices he has nothing to cover up save for a diaper. He tilts his head, finger still caught in babe’s grasp, and he considers. Perhaps another reason for Nero’s cries isn’t just that he’s in pain, the frostiness of the facility reaches into here just as it does in the dungeons. For all of Vergil’s selfishness, he’s aware of what he can do to help and he’s not so keen on giving it up. But as he weighs the pros and cons of having the blanket around, it occurs to him that at some point, a stray soldier is going to slink outside his calculations and he’ll lose this soft charity. 

_‘At least,’_ he concedes despairingly. _‘No one else can make use of it.’_

Vergil’s experience with children is slim to none. He recalls once, as a child, his mother took on the responsibility of caring for a dear friend’s baby while they were away on their honeymoon. The memories are cloudy and he barely remembers what his mother mentioned is detrimental to an infant’s health, such as the chance for suffocation in a crowded bassinet. As Vergil slides the blanket off his shoulders, he rationalizes that if the recklessness of his actions kills the baby then at least he won’t be here anymore, where life is nothing but metal confines and the frigid, stale air, living from numb isolation to experiment and back again. He tucks the blanket underneath Nero’s wiggling form, swaddling him as best as possible despite the fussiness. 

As he looks over his sloppy work, it occurs to him how ridiculous this venture has been. Nero now looks more like a tiny bean with a chubby face sticking out than an actual baby, some of the edges aren’t tucked in properly, and squirming around enough makes it so Nero can poke a claw out the blanket but it’ll have to do. As he gurgles and shoves a fist in his mouth—which, honestly, makes Vergil kind of nervous, there’s no telling whether this kid can heal yet—and sets to sucking on it, placated by some common company and a toasty hearth to sleep in. 

The sound of knights bursting through the door drags Vergil back to the center of _his_ situation. With all the grace and elegance of a newborn deer, he twists, his foot catches in a loop of wire, and he trips onto the floor, sounding a bit like someone had thrown down a sack of potatoes. The knights don’t waste any time lugging him to his feet or pulling him out the door, cutting him off from Nero. 

_“Did he see it?”_ One of them hisses, smartly choosing a position furthest away from him. 

“Keep your hair on,” Another says. “Don’t make a big fuss out of it.”

_It._

For some bizarre reason, Vergil’s insulted by how they refer to Nero. He almost snaps that he has a name, he’s an infant, possibly an orphan they’ve taken out of someone’s hands for their inhumane experiments but he holds his tongue. There’s no point in revealing whether he’s seen the baby, he isn’t obligated to defend him in any way, the only thing special about him in Vergil’s eyes, is that he’s holding onto his power. One way or another, he’s going to get it back. In the meanwhile, he’ll bide his time and wait to see what they plan on doing with Nero at all. Perhaps, he might even discover effects his power has he didn’t even know existed. 


	7. Cause and Effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of what he's learned, Vergil asks some questions. Some directed to himself and some directed to the Supreme General.

_Experiment Zero._

That is Nero’s label. Vergil learns this during a particularly brutal set of experiments when a pair of chatty researchers are loosening his restraints. He's consumed by an entirely different sort of rage, fire that burns so hot it feels cold and tears at his seams and blinds his better judgment. He shreds a canister of angel tears, uncaring of the way it froths over his arms, biting into them until they’re raw and red, and hurls it at them. He’s pleasantly surprised to find that it affects normal humans even more than it does him. They collapse into shaking, heaving lumps on the ground, rivulets of steam pouring off of them, and for a fleeting second, satisfaction swells inside him, warm and bittersweet. It’s soon replaced by a dizzying wave of indifference. 

The sound of the researchers’ strangled screaming fizzles out into static in the back of Vergil’s mind where his heartbeat thumps loud and steady. It keeps him alive, speaks of his still breathing, still suffering soul. He’s still here. But he doesn’t hear or feel anything save for the numb prickling of healing skin. He doesn’t even notice he’s been escorted back to his cell until he takes a deep breath of it’s musty, humid air and readjusts himself to be comfortable in its far corner. 

It’s only then he dares think about Nero freely.

There’s so little he knows.

What did they intend to do with him? Who was he? Where did he come from? Had the Order robbed a couple of their newborn child? Had they adopted him out of the hands of an orphanage matron? Had he been abandoned, left to the Order’s whims in a similar fashion to Vergil? 

These questions plague him well into his next escape. As he gingerly comes up to the corner, hidden in a small alcove between a large pipe and a wall, he catches a bit about the running experiment and how important it is they keep their momentum. A couple of researchers use hushed voices as they come around, seemingly afraid someone is listening in on their conversation. 

“How soon will it be done?” 

“Who can say? Experiment Zero is fussy but if we keep pursuing our goal, he may grow stronger yet. Dr. Agnus says…” 

The conversation trails off, imparting almost nothing of value. It says something that Vergil can glean information from this. If he makes the first assumption, then he’s a battery and Nero is... a blank slate. A canvas in which to paint their conceited, power-mongering atrocities. 

He slams the brakes on that train of thought, knowing its path will end the same way all his thoughts do these days. 

“Hands in the air!” A knight barks, snapping him out of his stupor and thankfully he might add. 

He doesn’t even need his powers to get this knight on the ground, they’re probably a rookie, or overconfident. Regardless, they’re out cold. Vergil follows a warm sensation to the knight’s lapel pocket and fishes out a candy red feather, the vanes of which are crystallized and gleaming in the harsh light. It thrums between his thumb and index finger and a thread of warmth strings through his muscles up to his shoulder. Something that tastes like stone and bitter broth coats his taste buds. _A Wing Talisman._

Vergil has only read about them in old grimoires speaking of needing them for summoning fantastical demons—a foolish endeavor and one that has no place in his head when Yamato is throwing a tantrum, he can hear her enraged screaming from several stories above him but that’s all he can make out of her location. He gets the vague notion that she’s pawing back Dr. Agnus’ attempts to conduct more research on her. He twirls the talisman in his fingers and starts down the nearest corridor, certain he saw the elevator around here somewhere-

Ah. Not far at all. The dark room has an eerie, mint green glow about it, and an obsidian pedestal guarding the entrance to a hexagonal lift sits stiffly in the center. Vergil peers once at the pedestal and, spying the tiny hole at the top, inserts the shaft of the feather into it. The elevator gives a shuddering groan as the locks come loose, the hinges squeal, and the grated door swings to the floor, banging noisily. 

Vergil doesn’t hesitate to seize his escape. He ends up blocking out most of the trip, more concerned with the destination itself than the method of getting there. 

The elevator clatters to the top and suspends him on the ground floor of the Order’s castle base, where solid metal meets deluxe extravagance in varying shades of gold, blue, and purple. With the vast expanse of hallways and staircases, it doesn’t take long for Vergil to lose himself to empty rooms of every sort—studies, private quarters, dining halls, even a library, none of which are the location of which he seeks. It isn’t until he begins passing through the next hallway that he receives a direct read on Yamato. 

Vergil exercises as much restraint as he can, remembering the first time he rushed in to grab Yamato and ultimately paid the price for it. As he pauses in the middle of the corridor, going over the ways he might be able to get his sword back, his senses catch a wispy chill. Goosebumps rise on his arms, a reaction he can’t recall the last occurrence of, and he turns his attention to the castle window, the ornate iron and glass doors of which sway in the wind, framed by velvet curtains. A crackle of lightning flashes in the blanket of clouds in the sky followed shortly by the intense drum of rolling thunder. The musky, savory smell of a storm wafts directly into his face. It’s like injecting liquid pleasure into his veins, with the way it runs the course of his body, inside and out. 

Vergil decides that the first second he gets out of this place, he’s going to chase down a storm and stand in the rain and allow himself to be a hopelessly sentimental fool. If just for a few minutes. 

Shaking himself free of the impulse, he continues down several more hallways until Yamato’s wretched screaming is the only thing he can hear. She clogs up every other thought with demands for Vergil to retrieve her and unheard, violent threats to slit the doctor's throat. He presses up against a wall with pale blue wallpaper, a hurried debate bounces around the room on the other side, and above the fracas, his beloved sword’s voice begs to be freed. Dr. Agnus’s stutter sticks out among the swarm, making promises of power. 

“Do without the eccentricities, doctor,” a hard, familiar voice snaps. “We know this already. You aren’t painting the bigger picture.” 

“Supreme General,” The vicar murmurs a reproach. A wave of nervous hushing floods into the room, stealing everyone’s voices with merciless frigidity. Nothing is said for a long while until-

“Then what of the babe?” The Supreme General asks. He speaks Nero’s tag with a hint of disgust. “ _Experiment Zero._ What’s his purpose? And why request mia signora’s assistance with this?” 

“Given a few years,” Dr. Agnus sneers. “I suspect he’ll make a better soldier than you will.” 

The uproar that follows pounds against Vergil’s head. He groans and massages his temples, half-wondering how anything in the Order gets done if its members so much as spend a fraction of their time arguing like this. It’s even more humiliating that their members got the upper hand on him and he curses every deity and demon in existence for this hell they thought would be funny to inflict on him. He doesn’t get far into that specific branch of thought, however. Sudden interruption bursts into the room, an assistant researcher stumbling over their words. 

“What is it?” Dr. Agnus grumbles, sounding as though he’s resigned himself to every inconvenience that’s hindered him thus far. 

“The prisoner-”

“What of him?” 

“He’s escaped again, sir.” 

Some choice words are exchanged and voices begin to rise again before the Supreme General takes charge of the situation with what Vergil imagines is a prior eye roll. “I’ll have troops ready to mobilize immediately, Your Holiness. He won’t have gone far.” 

_‘Oh, you’re so sure of yourself,'_ Vergil says to himself with the most sarcasm he can muster. The Supreme General isn’t wrong by any means but Vergil won’t admit it and he doesn’t need people to latch onto any lingering patterns. 

“Squadron one, patrol the far east side of the castle. Squadron two, the lower east. The rest of you, follow the drill, you know what I expect. Move out!” 

The shuffle of knights headed for the door gives Vergil mere seconds to get out of sight. He sweeps the corridor, sees the window, the curtains, the hideous wallpaper, the sconce. He summons an undetectable spark of power, leaps up to the gaudy chandelier, and slides belly first over the flat support just as the doors swing open. Squadrons duck from the room, marching in uniform order in separate hallways only followed at last by the Vicar and his most trusted men. Vergil dares to glance over the edge of the chandelier and is rewarded with watching Dr. Agnus swagger the opposite direction, Yamato grasped tightly in one hand, _his amulet in the other._ He fixes on its gold and ruby glimmer for as long as possible, even when it slips around the corner with the doctor. Vergil bites down onto his lip and swallows the groan scratching in his throat. His possessions slip through his fingers once again. 

Vergil counts the seconds until an eerie silence falls on the corridor and he’s left with nothing but his thoughts and the glaringly obvious presence of the Supreme General leaned up against the hallway wall, broadsword on his hip, and arms folded across his chest. Vergil’s never been the most patient sort but his pride suggests he keeps still and waits for an opening. As the seconds turn into minutes, he chooses to occupy himself by staring up at the ceiling and overanalyzing the situation. Sure, he _can_ drop down from the ceiling like a nightmare bat from hell and take the Supreme General out but the real question is whether he actually wants to get into a fight with all the risks it poses. He’s been overwhelmed several times already. 

As if reading his mind, the Supreme General speaks, his words going off like a gunshot. 

“You won’t get anywhere at the rate you’re going.”

Vergil freezes in place. He grips the edge of the chandelier until his knuckles turn white, not daring to look in the Supreme General’s location. He can't be talking to Vergil, no one saw him, much less the general, the last to have left the room. He decides to hold himself as long as possible, listening for other threats and staying out of sight. But no other threats come, it’s just the empty silence of the abandoned corridor. 

“The Yamato isn’t kept in this vicinity, you won’t find it here.” 

_‘You jest,’_ Vergil thinks sardonically, rolling his eyes. 

What will he say next? He thinks Vergil has a secret helpful side and _wants_ to aid these overzealous parasites in giving them demonic power that they’re clearly going to abuse? 

“I am not so weak that I couldn’t find a way to drag you out by force.” 

Had it been anyone else, Vergil would have scoffed. But those words, in particular, are punctuated by something clearly _not human_ , and his demon answers its call with a bloodthirsty vigor. In the time it takes to blink, Vergil is on the ground, facing the Supreme General with the intention to fight, muscles tensed, arms pulled close to his body. The first thing he notices is the harsh glint of the general’s eyes peeking out from underneath his hood. But aside from that, the Supreme General isn’t immediately different from the soldiers he commands. 

“And I am not so weak either,” Vergil grinds out, absently reaching for the thin sliver of demonic power that summons his spectral swords. “I am capable of resisting.” 

“I suspected as much.” The general tilts his head in acceptance, fear absent in both his tone and posture. _Every emotion_ absent in both his tone and posture, save for one that has no name but feels like an overcast sky leaning over a calm ocean. Vergil can’t say whether such a feat impresses him or irritates him. “But I think it’d be in your best interest not to. You saw the Yamato but you don’t know where it’s going, your chances of recapturing your property this time are slim. Best to take this loss with grace before someone less forgiving finds you.” 

Vergil would rather _die._

But he doesn’t combat it when the general places an admittedly gentle hand on the small of his back. If he’s being escorted, then it provides him a way to gain knowledge he might not be capable of tracking down on his own. At least, that’s what Vergil tells himself. He’s too stubborn to face the reality of his own aimlessness and reasons that among his limited options, this is the best one. The Supreme General has given him no reason to fight and maybe the mix of drugs and exhaustion is making honesty drip through him like sludge but he doesn’t want to fight. He just wants to rest. 

The general guides him through the hallways, steering him clear of most squadrons and subduing the ones they do pass with a simple and direct “At ease, gentlemen.” They salute and fall back into their routine like dominoes, barely sparing Vergil a second glance if they do at all. They travel the halls in complete silence, the general’s hand never once falling from his back or his attention from the objective. It’s by the time they reach the top of the stairs that Vergil gains a healthy amount of begrudging respect for him. Though in comparison to the other people he’s met who earned it, it’s very little. 

“You should be grateful,” the general says suddenly as he locks the door to Vergil’s cell. 

A screeching pop sounds off in Vergil’s mind and the side of his head throbs like it’s going to burst a blood vessel. He looks up the ceiling, trying hard to reign his anger in. He huffs out a laugh instead. 

“And why is that? You’ve done nothing but take and have given nothing to me in return.” 

“That blanket.” 

Vergil turns a guarded look on the general, measuring the ticking silence that’s sifted between them. He studies the general’s face for a flicker of irritation or resentment but all that remains is silence and stoicism. A carefully crafted mask not unlike Vergil’s own. He thinks of the woman in his cell not too long ago, of her delicate gait and quick movements; an ill-concealed shadow dancing between the bars of his cell. Graceful, poised, unrehearsed but certain. 

“What about it?” 

“My wife gave it to you,” The general explains. “She’s the generous sort. It didn’t take long for the Chief Alchemist to find it. If he had traced it back to her, he would have killed her, and his Holiness wouldn’t have let me intervene. Demon sympathizers aren’t granted any chance for redemption, especially down here.” He pauses for a moment and he must see something reassuring in the way Vergil stares at him because he risks his next words with a tone of stout caution. “You owe her.” 

Vergil’s knee-jerk reaction is to scoff and angle a glare at the supreme general. His words come out sharp as spears.

“I owe her nothing,” he snaps. “I didn’t ask for her kindness.”

_‘If such a thing gets her killed, that’s her fault.’_

The unspoken words hover in the air and while no one may hear them, Vergil means every bit of them unrepentantly. The Supreme General removes himself from the conversation with almost apathetic ease, leaning back and pivoting like a foot soldier. It’s only the splinter of unknown emotion that flashes in his eyes before he goes that makes Vergil approach the cell bars. His hand shoots out and grabs the general’s arm with a vice grip. The sharp hiss of the general unsheathing his weapon is the only warning Vergil gets before he almost loses that hand to a shining blade. A flash of silver sings against the bars of the cell, ringing out like a church bell on a Sunday morning. 

“Do not touch me again,” the general seethes. 

A twinge of pride swells outward in Vergil’s chest. A smug smile pulls at his lips, the spark of rogue attitude returning. So even the Supreme General can lose his temper. 

“Before you leave,” Vergil says, tilting his head to the side. “At least tell me why you’re so content to treat me this way. The Order, I mean.” The general freezes, his stance and half-hidden expression tense and calculative. It doesn’t escape Vergil the way he traces every bit of his form, looking for the tell of an attack but Vergil does not give it. He has no intention of initiating combat. “Why imprison me? Why drain my powers? Should you not give me the same worship you gave my father?” 

“You are divine,” the general says tightly, sheathing his sword and facing the exit. His countenance suggests he’s a bit eager to leave. “But we are not imprudent enough to believe that Sparda would not challenge our worthiness for that divinity. Humans are strong in their own way, we can’t solely rely on him if we are to grow and spread his legacy.” 

Vergil can pick out several contradictions in the general’s statements and if he had the patience, he’d point them all out. Not so regrettably, he has better things to do than entertain a fool knight who spouts off the same nonsense as the rest of his organization. 

“Do you genuinely believe such foolish doctrine?” Vergil asks. 

The Supreme General spares him a single look, expression schooled into callous indifference once more, then leaves without answering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hnngh,_ I'm sorry this took so long to update. A ton of stuff happened between April and July but HEY!! I've got a decent buffer going so weekly updates are soon to return! That being said, I hope you all are asking questions and ready to go because we've hit the halfway point of this arc and we're going to start getting into the parts of the story I actually care about. 
> 
> (I mean it. If you have questions ask them. I'm looking to tie up all the loose ends of this arc by chapter 13.)


	8. Coarse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The greatest threat to Vergil's demon side makes itself known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SCREEEEEEEECH!! I'M SORRY, I MEANT TO HAVE THIS UP LAST WEEK BUT WORK KICKED MY ASS SO I PUT IT OFF. FORTUNATELY, IT'S HERE NOW!! I HOPE YOU ENJOY IT!

“It is almost complete, your Holiness.” 

Vergil breathes in and out, finding a rhythm that rises and falls in tandem with his power being drained. He flexes his arms against the leather straps binding him to the table, analyzing how much strength it will require to break out and vault across the lab in order to throttle the vicar of Sparda in the shortest amount of time possible. 

“While I respect the hard work you’ve put into this project, doctor,” the vicar rasps out. “I would appreciate it if you could speed this along. We cannot afford to keep our followers from the glory of Sparda. Their faithfulness deserves a reward.” 

Dr. Agnus remains quiet and curls in on himself, contemplating, shoulders hunched and head bowed. Though he towers above most everyone, he’s small in the shadow the vicar casts. Vergil catches the general’s half-amused glance as he passes by the table. Their eyes meet for a split second, a shared scintillation of cognizance passes between them—Dr. Agnus is a _bonafide weakling_. The general presses on to his superiors and colleagues, dropping Vergil’s stare. In the few moments they’ve seen each other since their conversation, he’s averted his gaze and wisely kept to himself. Vergil figures he’s made his point. 

“I suppose,” Dr. Agnus starts slowly. He straightens up as soon as he realizes he’s under the intense scrutiny of the Supreme General, bold and brave, and refusing to back down if a challenge presents itself. “If I looked into it enough, I could use the Yamato to seize the rest of our bounty.” 

Vergil’s heart speeds up, battering his ribcage as it climbs into his throat. A cold chill eases over him, suffusing a bone-deep tightness into his chest. His mind races like that of an avalanche tearing down the mountainside; deafening, crushing, chaotic. _He can’t even think of it. If he does-_ Vergil chokes on the worst-case scenario as it flashes through his mind. This is his demonic blood. He can’t have it taken away, _he can’t lose what makes him strong._

“These rituals are intricate, however, and I will need time to study the Yamato. If you will grant me that time, I will more than make up for it in my studies of our blessing.” 

While it’s unlikely the Supreme General would take Vergil's possessiveness over his power into consideration, his voice slashes through the open space, loud and clear like a whip crack bringing life and a spotlight to Vergil’s fears. His posture is stiff and unyielding like he's preparing himself for battle. There's little to appreciate about someone whose stagnant faith in the Order binds him to acts of greed and cold-hearted ruthlessness, but at the very least, he isn't blind and he knows when his input is needed. 

“Your Holiness!” He shouts, though steady, his tone is thick with horror. “As your general and the appointed protector of the people, I must advise you to reconsider. Handling this much demonic power on its own is already a risk. If something were to happen, please consider the number of people it could put in harm’s way. You were the general before me, surely I can ask you to understand.” 

It's just as unfortunate, however, that his input isn't desired. Dr. Agnus seethes, his face contorting into a twisted mask of revulsion. He shudders, his hands curling into fists at his sides while his mouth snaps open and closed in the manner of a gaping fish. He looks like a kettle about to boil over and spout off his rage when the vicar cuts him off, quietly but effortlessly de-escalating the situation before it can blow it’s top. He holds a placating hand out, eyes trained on the general. Though they are kind and warm, there’s a dark, accusing edge. 

“I do understand your reservations, general,” the vicar says slowly. “Your job is to protect the populace and our loyal followers. As my successor, aren’t I to assume you are capable of that?”

The general flinches, more so at the unspoken words than the spoken ones. _Are you incapable of protecting innocent civilians? Of leading your soldiers into battle against danger? Will I have to appoint someone else to your position?_ The general swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing against his throat. The silence gradually swelters and suffocates what shreds of protests the general might have put together, leaving him with only one thing to do. Abruptly, with forced resignation, his shoulders sink, and the chords of his body relax. 

“I can handle whatever task is given to me, I will have no problem executing orders.” 

“Good.” 

The vicar chooses not to waste any more time with his general. He motions Dr. Agnus aside and the two set off at a slow pace, practically promenading in full view of Vergil. The sound of the metal restraints splitting apart under unmatched demonic strength is all the warning they get. Using the table as a springboard, Vergil launches himself at the vicar. There’s a sharp bark just before Vergil’s hands close around the vicar’s throat, and he’s thrown to the floor by a body much larger than his. 

“Lie still,” the Supreme General hisses. 

Vergil struggles more vehemently, growling, and aiming for any piece of exposed flesh to chomp down on. The general is too sharp for Vergil’s instincts to outwit and before long, he hands him off. Two other knights begin dragging Vergil down the corridors. There’s a hazy exchange between the general and the vicar, some curt nods, but it’s all Vergil can catch. One of the knights secures Vergil by the juncture between his neck and shoulders and slams his head against the wall. A dizzying wave washes over him and his sight gains a vindictive red tint, even as he tries to shake it free. 

He has to escape. The stakes are too high to ignore for much longer, if he goes on the way he has, he’ll lose _everything._ Just like he lost his mother, just like he lost his brother. 

He thrashes violently, disregarding cuffs and drawn blood and every attempt to bring him back to his cell. With everything on the line, Vergil’s willing to give as much hell as he can take, and the Order has been forcing him to take prolific amounts. Vergil yanks his captors into the darkness of the dungeon. They all collapse in a heap of sprawled limbs and frustration. Vergil jackknifes to his feet and twists around just long enough to bound down the corridor a bit. The loose dirt and pebbles press into the soles of his feet uncomfortably. The familiar cold welcomes him back with a vicious grin and deceptive promises of silence. He veers around the corner and skids to a stop, his eyes landing on a sight that steals his breath away with thin, misty fingers. The two knights recover just in time to grab him once more but they do so distractedly, their eyes drawn to the same thing Vergil's are. 

The gentle folds of a beige skirt brush against the stone bricks as a woman paces down the halls, soft-edged and unrushed, almost glowing in the dusky quarters. Locks of fiery red hair wreath into an intricate pleat pinned neatly at the nape of her neck, loose curls frame her cheeks from where they’ve come loose. Her crisp white blouse dips just below her collarbone, revealing a golden rose charm attached to a gleaming necklace chain. But the thing that stands out the most is the gathering of dark silk and cotton cradled in her arms. Nero’s cooing mingles with the sweet song floating from between the woman’s pink lips, filling the space with such casual, homey balminess. 

For a brief moment, Vergil’s vision blurs, and he sees himself running around the manor's kitchen as a child, giggling innocently and getting tangled in his mother’s dress. He incinerates that memory, grounding himself with the feeling of the cuffs binding his wrists and his guards squeezing his arms. 

“Signora Benedetto,” one of the guards breathes, his hood thrown back to reveal the frozen consternation on his face. “What are you doing down here? It’s dangerous.”

The woman, Signora Benedetto, looks over and Vergil is greeted by honey brown eyes tinged with embers. 

“Seeking a quiet place to nurse,” she answers, as though implying the knights should already know that. “That laboratory is dreadful to wander through when trying to get a baby to sleep.” 

“You shouldn’t be down here, if Dr. Agnus were to find you-” the knight cuts himself off, not deigning to finish that statement. A shiver races up Vergil’s spine and the air chills by several degrees but the woman’s light doesn’t diminish. It doesn’t take a genius to know what the doctor will do if he discovers her. He isn't the forgiving sort. 

The other knight, a man with a gruff quality to words, scoffs and steps forward to seize her, clearly not at all caring of her personal space or her feelings. “Let’s move you somewhere safer.” 

“I can move, thank you.” Signora Benedetto passes around the knight, gracefully avoiding his hold with little trouble. Vergil catches a subtle flicker of righteous irritation in her expression as she does. “And if you try to touch me without my permission again, _you know_ what General Benedetto will _do to you._ ” 

Now that sparks a simple thought. Just how much crueler is the Supreme General? He lets himself wonder, thinking of the general's actions, quick and unflinching. His swift capture of Vergil in the forest, his resigned yet confident commands, allaying any and all fear from his subordinates. It must rival Dr. Agnus' ability to silence most of them with a single look or his outbursts that push even his assistants to second-guess their actions. The trio stands at an impasse, frozen in time, seemingly oblivious to Vergil’s witness of their conflict. Finally, they silently compromise with each other. The knights dip into a steep bow, allowing the lady to step aside and depart from the dungeons without their interference. 

The gruff knight gestures to his partner to lock the divine blessing back up, which he does with surprisingly no hassle. Vergil is still breathless just watching Signora Benedetto be escorted back towards the laboratory, he’s positively enchanted by her. She takes every step like she’s a ballerina in a grand performance, no movement wasted as she goes. Elegant, gorgeous, strong, and carrying a child—the child that holds his powers. The spell over him only lifts when the knight finishes twisting the key in the lock. 

“Don’t even think about it,” he says sternly. “You leave her alone.” 

Satisfied with his warning, the knight takes his leave. 

Vergil finally inhales, swallowing in gulps of stale air as to regain himself, and sinks to the floor, his mind blissfully empty after years of pain and torture and fury. His lungs burn and his chest aches, physical exhaustion settling into every fiber of his being. As he slowly recovers, identifying his body and his surroundings to tether himself to reality once more, his mind drifts into the awash dreaminess of a lullaby. The shadow of a woman dances in his eyes and he sees Signora Benedetto again, between the bars of his cell on a black night, delivering a blanket to his cell. She’s the general’s wife, he realizes. With her firm, down-to-earth presence, her assertion of her place, the sharp edge of her timbre, the pieces laggardly begin to fit together. It’s no small wonder the general would think Vergil owes her something, he almost feels like he does. 

Almost. 

He nestles into the corner, saturated by awe whilst he tries to recollect his scattered mind. The fractured bits and pieces he pulls together dig into his head from the inside, causing a headache he has to knead away with his knuckles. 

This woman…

He remembers hearing something about her, a question as to why she was allowed in the laboratory and an answer that he’s not certain anyone has. He keeps that image of her, swaying back and forth, the golden rose glinting even though there’s no light, and he grouses. He grinds his teeth together until his jaw is just as sore as everything else in his body. He’s never once talked to her and already she’s a pain in his neck. As he massages his temples, head between his knees and breathing steadied out once more, the sound of the door screeching open once again reaches his ears. He stiffens, calculating how much time he’s lost, how long he’s been there. He can’t have spent the whole night lost in his memories, could he?

But instead of the uniform marching of the Order knights, padded slippers are sweeping about the corridor. A quiet lullaby slows his panic. Foreign in language and distant in love, it sounds like something his mother might have sung while rocking him to sleep when all he knew was warmth and the bassinet he shared with his brother. How has he yearned for her so much in the passing days? 

“Fai la ninna, fai la nanna…” 

Vergil supports himself on the wall and slips over to the bars of his cell, listening to Signora Benedetto’s crescendoing vibrato until it peaks and fades into melodic humming. She turns the corner just as Vergil gains the good sense to back away, dropping his near eager front. Her hood is pulled up. It’s not strange to him, all the citizens of Fortuna are required to wear a hood to supposedly hide from the eyes of Sparda’s enemies, so their religion preached. What _is_ strange is how miffed she is about it. Her tense shoulders and almost protective hold on Nero gives her away. 

“You came back.” The words are out before Vergil can suppress them. He mentally jabs himself with a summoned sword for being so monumentally brainless and half pleads with death to take him right then and there just to avoid the way she stares at him—curious, unbothered, entertained. He can argue for unimpressed judging by the quirk of her brow. 

“I did,” she replies after some time. “Does that surprise you?

“Why?” Vergil is incapable of sealing his lips, possessed by the spirit of inquiry. He hates himself for that, hates his own tongue for tripping. “It’s not very hospitable down here.” 

“Compared to the rest of the laboratory, this place is a cozy dream.” 

Vergil snorts, unable to keep himself from smiling a tiny bit. She’s right, he knew this before she stated it. But there’s something so regaling about her wit paired with the wryness of her humor. He isn’t quite sure who she reminds him of but she’s already captured him with her disposition. In fairness, he is awfully bored, and _she is_ cradling his power-imprinted child. Nero makes a warbly sounding noise and waves his claws around in a valiant yet fruitless attempt to catch the dust sailing above his head. Vergil’s demon keens longingly, extending bits of itself to squirm between Nero’s hands. His heart squeezes in his chest, though he isn’t sure why. Signora Benedetto might have something to do with it but Vergil suspects that anyone could hold Nero this way and his demon would still cry. It’s just a shame it has to be her. 

“If you really must know, I’m trying to get _this one,_ ” she starts, carefully tilting Nero just enough so Vergil can see him. “To fall asleep.” 

Nero scrunches up his face and sneezes, blowing the dust into frantic swirls. The noise is high and it resembles a squeaky toy being squeezed. It's enough to force Vergil to stab his soft idiot brain with an ice pick before it demands to hold Nero in his arms. 

He jerks his mind into the company of a new idea. The dungeons can’t be very healthy for either the child or this woman but Vergil doesn’t care that much. Not enough to grace her with a response, anyway. Signora Benedetto takes his silence to mean the conversation has ended and graciously so. She picks up from where she left off on her song, slowly waltzing Nero into a peaceful slumber. She never leaves the vicinity, her rich voice bounces off the walls so Vergil can always hear it. He traces her movements with his eyes and slowly suspects that she's down there for more than just peace quiet. 

“Fai la ninna, fai la nanna…” 

He smiles again. 

Pain in the neck indeed.


	9. True Grit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Order takes their experiments on Vergil too far, leading the general and his signora to the beginnings of a dangerous decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, SO. Before any of you read this chapter, I need, emphasis on _need_ you to take note of the updated rating.
> 
> **This fic is now rated M for Mature.**
> 
> As I mentioned in an earlier note, I wasn't sure if the rating on this would change as it progressed and as I was delving into writing chapter 9, I realized with no small amount of "oops..." that I had taken this fic up a notch. My original assumption was that those who would be reading this fic would have played at least one DMC game or at the very least watched the cutscenes and had a good indication that the series was rated M. (Which means I'd hope you'd expect to find Canon Typical Violence in anything I've written for it.) That being said, the rating went up for this fic because this chapter contains darker themes and gore. 
> 
> **Warnings are as follow:** Out of Body Experiences, Dissociation (?), Scalpels, Syringes, Impalement, and Vivisection. These topics may be upsetting and even triggering to some readers, discretion is advised.

Dr. Agnus isn’t a scientist—he’s a torturer. 

Anyone with half a braincell could figure that out. But Vergil, who’s been on the receiving end of his “research” for several months, is fixated on the rudimentary fact that Dr. Agnus has nothing of value to offer in his field and is making up for it by throwing random hypotheses at him and hoping they stick. His piping falsetto, mantled in electrical fuzz, grates against his ears. Vergil holds firm, summoning navy blue scales and black claws just before a Blitz can carve a piece of his torso into bits. 

The cool air of the room bites into him through the glistening sheen of sweat forming on his body. His transformation is only half-complete but he doesn’t dare summon any more power than he already has. The less he gives to his captors, the better, even if it makes this fight that much harder. More than that, he has to reserve as much as possible for his own benefit. He doesn’t know how much more he can tolerate being stolen. 

Vergil pushes off the floor, snapping out his wings to boost himself onto the ceiling. He peers down at it, flashing his fangs with an impish chuckle. The Blitz howls in rage, its body lighting up in a shower of golden sparks. It’s almost like a game, Vergil dodging his hunter, taunting them with rewards of his blood, and watching in satisfaction as they always miss him. It’s a stark reminder of how close the outside world is and what awaits him, the same bleak routine subsuming every day, ticking seconds marked only by the gears in a clock. He can’t say he misses it but he’ll take it over Dr. Agnus’ screams of “FASCINATING” echoing off the cold walls, of sleepless nights unable to hone his skills, of hearing the screams of demons coalesce outside the walls of the fortress because they’d found him and they wanted him dead. 

Funny how his only line of defense are the people who are draining him; a thin border composed of another party’s greed. 

By funny, Vergil means he’s going to rip out everyone’s throats because of it. 

The cylindrical room flashes a storming yellow. Vergil bounces off the wall toward the Blitz, warping from before its speared horn to behind its tail, latching onto the perforating limb despite the way the spikes stab into his palms, and hurling it towards the floor. Vergil meets the safe zone in the center of the room just as it lights up and overloads the Blitz with its own power. It explodes into a deluge of ash and charred guts and blood, all the manner of things from within a demon’s anatomy that Vergil could have gone the rest of his life without seeing. 

Dr. Agnus breaks into rapid applause while several of his assistants scurry around, wildly scrambling to record the fight and its aftermath. 

It’s routine expectation that prepares him for the rivers of miasmic drugs that always take him out, no matter the struggle. He anticipates the disoriented blur of his surroundings and pounces through it, just enough strength left in him to plunge a summoned sword directly into the window separating him from his tormentors. He brings his palm down on the hilt, the iridescent blade shatters with the window, surrounding him in a shower of glittering glass and magic that forms a broken crown. 

The researchers scream and scatter like cockroaches, abandoning Dr. Agnus to Vergil’s wrath. Vergil circles around the almost gleeful doctor, a predator honing in on its prey. But he knows better this time, he knows his prey has larger teeth than he does—this is less like a cat prowling on a mouse and more of a grinning guard dog biding time until the cat makes the first move. Vergil is eager to oblige and his patience wears thin as quickly as sand seeps through an hourglass, even as he _knows_ Agnus is prepared for his attack. He sees it in the fugitive scintillation of the syringe tucked between his fingers. The doctor knows a dozen ways to knock Vergil out and he’s not above any of them. 

It’s only just Vergil’s luck that the next minute rushes by, going something like this. 

Agnus feints left, which Vergil expects and lunges to intercept. He warps to the side and grabs the doctor’s arm. Much to his credit, he overwhelms Agnus long enough to sweep him onto the floor and snatch up a broken fragment of glass. He slams the fragment down towards Agnus’ head with blinding speed only caught by a gloved hand, its rubber exterior abrading against his wrist. He focuses his strength, ignoring the pain, and pushes it ever closer to his prey. The fragment brushes against the spot between Agnus’ eyes, drawing a singular speck of blood. _He just needs a little more-_

A sudden, steady _ka-chunk ka-chunk ka-chunk_ enters the room. Vergil whips his head up to find a bulky suit of armor, brazen and bright, raring up like a car engine, a pair of feathered white wings spreading out of it’s back to fill the space. It moves in a flash of violet-blue, first there then right in front of his eyes, and it rams straight into him. 

The impact of the wall against his back knocks the breath out of him. There’s a gleam of silver from the suit of armor’s weapon—a lance. Vergil steels himself for the oncoming attack and cries out in agony as the it thrusts through his midriff. A deluge of copper subsumes his taste buds. He chokes. Hot blood splatters onto the once sterile floor. 

A throaty laugh hovers above Vergil like an oppressive cloud. Dr. Agnus slides to his feet, a wicked grin stretched out across his face as he zeroes in on his test subject pinned down like an insect, honed focus composing his features. 

“I admit, even after so long, your strength is still admirable,” he muses, twirling the syringe between his fingers. He gestures a hand at the suit of armor, its gears and joints ominously creaking as if hesitating, before it pitches backward and yanks the lance out. Vergil grunts, body going limp as he slides down to the floor and slumps against the wall. A river of blood gushes out from between his fingers as he presses down on the wound. “Your power was just the thing I needed to bring my works to life. And yet. So much of you is still so human.”

When Agnus leans down to grab his face, crushing it between his hands, Vergil has the good sense to let him know what he thinks of all this. He gathers the lingering reserves of his energy and spits in Agnus’ face. The scientist jolts back, letting go of Vergil’s face in favor of scrubbing the saliva from the eyes. 

“Indeed,” Agnus murmurs, rage dawning on his very expression. “ _Too human._ ” 

He leers on that last word and jabs the needle into his neck, pushing down on the syringes contents. The world tilts on his axis and the drug spreads through Vergil’s system, immobilizing his each and every nerve to uselessness. “I have to wonder just _how human._ ” 

The burning sting of a scalpel peels down Vergil’s front, precise in every movement. He loses his composure, submerged in terror and the blooming realization that _he isn’t healing._ The Order has drained so much of his power away that the demon within can’t even knit him back together when he’s been torn open. Pumped full of tranquilizer, Vergil knows he can’t even wriggle out of Dr. Agnus’ grasp, and his mind, stained by a note of horror, supplies him with the fact that he’s going to be stuck here forever. He’s doomed to the role of a lab rat and a battery for the rest of his life and the only person left to remember him— _Dante_ —won’t even know he’s here. In time, even he’ll fade from his brother’s mind, twinkling out like the tail of a burning comet. 

He’ll be alone for good this time. 

His mind goes fuzzy with panic and the black dots dancing on the edges of his vision eventually take over completely and drown him in an ocean of darkness. One by one his senses wane and die away, the once encroaching frigidity of the laboratory warms and numbs. The only sensation he detects is the invading hands plunged into his chest, squirming around until they brush over a switch that shuts down his brain. He imagines his mother’s arms enfolding him and accepts the bracing peace of unconsciousness.

**\---**

When Vergil next revives into the light of day, he does so with a comforting, damp warmth burgeoning on his forehead and a muted song buzzing in his ears. All the tension in his body releases, his nightmares fade into faraway mirages, and his heart gradually begins to beat again—sure and steady. _You’re alive,_ it says. Though a deep, inner mourning wishes he wasn’t. 

His brain naturally latches onto the thread of life, letting it pull him out of the darkness chanting his mother’s cradle songs. He feels the biting stone of the dungeon next, the way it scrapes against his palms as life floods back to his fingers, enabling him to twitch them one by one. The fluff in his ears clears away. His eyes blink open in a sluggard manner and a blurry visage of burning orange and melted cream hovers over him. Their voice is an unheard whisper, slow and cool, nursing him with sweet mercy that he responds to with a guttural groan. There’s a sense of peace to this presence, soothing like a healing balm on a vast, seething burn and gentle like the sun’s morning light twinkling through a forested mountain’s mist. 

Then all at once, his memories come streaming back to him—Dr. Agnus, the laboratory, the dungeons, _everything_ , and his instincts ignite his inborn sense to fight. He lunges for the figure and flips them on their back, hands coming down to crush their vitals in one swift movement. A strangled squeak needles the air as the figure’s weak fingers pull at his. He lingers over them, seething as his demon struggles to take over and just catching the desperation in their movements. They’re trembling. 

It doesn’t matter to him how scared this one might be. _He’ll kill them, he’ll kill them_ **_all._ **

“Please…” the figure begs, their chest struggling to rise with breath. _“Please.”_

Tears pressure the backs of his eyes, desperate to force their way out. The only thing holding them back is his anger unchained and his desire to kill as they return his vision to him and abruptly make it clear. Signora Benedetto struggles beneath him, fighting for her life while he steals it away. As if her skin brands him, he leaps off and scrambles as far away as possible; until his back meets the wall. 

Signora Benedetto rolls over onto all fours, eyes wide and aggrieved by fear. Violent coughing shreds her throat while her body lurches with each desperate breath. 

“You’re-” Vergil wheezes, rife with instant recognition. “You’re the general’s wife.” 

He swears and pushes the heels of his palms against his eyes until the strain causes an ache designed to ground him. This woman, this _wretch._ Why was she down here? What was she doing? His mind hurtles in the direction of the laboratory once more, unearthing every possibility with relentless fervor. Did Dr. Agnus send her here? Did he intend on using her for some new form of psychological torture? Vergil doesn’t know, doesn’t care. He wants her _GONE._ The sooner the better. 

He opens his mouth to demand her presence be swept away when he suddenly comes aware of the burning that scours his front. He begins to pad at his shirt and skin, searching for the injury, _hungering_ to heal it. 

“No-” Signora heaves, toppling over herself to get to him. “Don’t!” 

He snarls at her, dignity hurled to the dogs. Slivers of his demonic power slip out, giving his eyes a metallic sheen that promises a bloody and merciless death. She fumbles, rightly terrified of him. _As she should be_ , Vergil thinks as his fingers trace the seams of his shirt and the thick, searing line of pain that pokes through it. He reaches up to the collar of his shirt and yanks down, rending a long and loud tear through the fabric that allows his skin to breathe. He flinches at the sight. 

Bursting over his body is a discoloration that resembles the manner of a dying star—stretching tendrils eating up most of his abdomen and midriff. Straight down the center of his torso, starting from his sternum and ending just below his stomach, there’s a long medical scar twined together with thick sutures where Dr. Agnus sliced him open. Dim strings of blue light occasionally rise beneath the surface of his skin, glowing through as it tries to eliminate the invading stitches. A deluge of nausea hits him all at once, rising and crashing down like a wave against a rocky beach, liable to swallow him whole. He can barely breathe, even as wet, panicky gasps rush through his lungs and rasp against his throat. 

“Don’t touch it.” Signora Benedetto’s voice touches the air with uncertain frailty, cautiously analyzing his movement when his head snaps toward her. “You weren’t healing when my husband found you so I had to stitch you back together.” She stays silent as Vergil stares at her with unhidden contempt, eyebrows furrowed while he concentrates on studying her. 

“...why?” Vergil finally manages through his hyperventilating. 

“You were in pain.” 

As if that answers his questions. No, it does little more than multiply his already festering ones. 

Signora Benedetto’s breathing shakes as she drifts to her feet and gathers- it appears to be a basin of iced water and a soft cloth, it’s once pure surface dirtied by the grime of the dungeons. As she soaks the cloth in what’s left of the basin’s contents and rings it dry, half-distracted by the task, her gaze smoothly slips over to him, tainted with worry. 

“You shouldn’t have to suffer here,” she elaborates after some time. “You deserve better than that.” She pauses to think. “And I deserve better than to do nothing about it.” 

Vergil isn’t sure what to make of that so he just sits there in eerie silence with her, time passing on a plane of existence he’s not certain is real. Over time, his breathing reduces to a resting rhythm, the fear ebbing out in favor of dull resignation. His vision keeps spinning and stilling itself, habitually snatching pieces of his surroundings, even at one point he views Signora Benedetto and himself persisting in this space, alone. He’s detached from his body as it leans against the wall, taken by restless slumber while he observes from a perspective that isn’t his and growling, voiceless and unheard, when she approaches him again. She combs her fingers through his unruly hair, slicking it back into place, and dabs his forehead with the cloth. 

When he reaches to make her stop, his hand phases through her’s. 

**\---**

Though Vergil usually wakes to the rude commands of the knights and keys clicking in a lock, he finds he rather dislikes Signora Benedetto lingering outside his cell more than his routine. She’s like a ghost, drifting up and down the hallways, graceful and slow, always murmuring a sweet-sounding melody. She’s stubborn and foolhardy, she initiates conversations with him that Vergil is ashamed to admit he took part in. He should know better than to fall victim to the dreariness of the Order’s dungeons so much that human interactions would entertain him. 

It’s too much for him to face his own flaws, so he handles it by taking it out on Signora Benedetto. 

“You’re a fool,” he hisses from the floor. Anesthesia had been administered to his legs during Dr. Agnus’ latest power-draining session. The knights had to drag him back to his cell and he can do no more than use his upper body strength to shore himself up against the wall. He’s grumpy, fight him. “Coming down here, even knowing it could get you killed.”

Signora Benedetto pauses in the middle of shaking a miniature teddy bear around in front of Nero, who giggles as soon as he’s able to wrap his claws around it. She doesn’t seem all that offended by his statement. In fact, the smile on her face indicates she finds it rather amusing. 

“I am, aren’t I?” She says aloud as though to taste how the words sound. “If I were smart, I’d be at home, reading or painting. But goodness requires kindness-” she playfully sticks her tongue out at the laughing baby in her arms. She turns her gaze on him. “-and kindness begets more kindness.” 

Vergil rolls his eyes, thoroughly put out by her. “What’s the point? What do you get out of this?” 

“Didn’t I just say?” 

No, she didn’t—Vergil’s sure of it. If the answer is that she’s doing it out of the goodness of her heart, then it’s not really an answer. No human being in the world is so selfless to put their life on the line _just_ to offer company to a depraved soul like him. It’s too ludicrous a notion to accept. She could be doing much better with her time. But regardless of his opinions, over the next several days she proceeds to be a persistent _pest_ to his peaceful solitude. 

One such day, he catches her staring at his chest for much too long, brow pinched with worry or perhaps sympathy. The lingering pain from Dr. Agnus’ experiments has persisted this far and everytime he so much as pretends to fall asleep, he sees reflections of the doctor’s smile plastered on the shiny surfaces of the suit of armor as it impales him with its lance. In those moments, the pain flares up like a bolt of lightning shattering across his ribcage and stomach and a rolling wave of nausea seizes hold until he can ride out its course. His lips curl into a snarl as he glares, the haunted look of a god of death flickering in his eyes. 

“Stop it!” He snaps, curling in on himself. 

Signora Benedetto flinches, taken aback by the sharp attack of his words. She doesn’t have Nero with her tonight, so she has even less of an excuse to hang around the dungeons, and for a moment he swears he can see the curiosity that curses her form. He despises it like everything else in this wretched place, he refuses to tolerate it. Not with the way his head spins or his body aches or how he can’t reel in a line of thought to save his life because they keep twirling tops just out of his reach and-

His stomach growls. 

It’s loud, angry sound is audible even from where Signora Benedetto is standing. She lets him know her opinions on it via the high, chirpy laugh that bubbles out of her. He grits his teeth, glaring as many daggers at her as it would take to murder a Riot in cold blood. He feels the back of nis neck redden. This is beyond the kind of humiliation the Order could inflict on him, even counting the time a researcher panicked and chucked a bucket of water at him. 

He hasn’t needed to eat for years, having been born with it being more of a trivial pastime to take pleasure in than an actual necessity. He recalls the few moments in his life when his mother let him have a spoonful of pie filling, the sweetly daring taste of apples and cinnamon in his mouth. He recalls late nights sneaking down into the kitchen to see his mother coddling Dante, scooping him into her arms in much the same way she quit doing for Vergil before her untimely demise. 

“Well, that explains why you’re so grumpy all the time,” Signora Benedetto giggles. She leans down near the cage bars, a smile of the teasing sort pulling on her lips. “Do you need a snack?” 

_‘The utter audacity of this woman-’_ Vergil sputters to himself. _‘The absolute nerve. She’s going to die.’_

“I will _eat your heart!_ ” He vows. In a moment of pure genius thinking, he forgets about the lidocain the Order started habitually injecting into his legs and majestically throws himself to the floor in an attempt to get to her.

“That wouldn’t taste very good,” Signora Benedetto says as she drifts away from him and back down the halls. “I’ll see if I can get you something more appropriate.” 

“Keep your pity!” He hisses as the door screams shut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vergil: -demonic screaming-  
> Signora Benedetto: Now, now, have some manners  
> Vergil: -louder demonic screaming-


	10. La Signora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Signora Benedetto fabulously shoves her way into Vergil’s life and forces him to confront platonic love like it’s coming to rip his head off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -poking docs with a baton- if I have to split another chapter up, I’m gonna cry.

Signora Benedetto makes good on her word to bring him food—and it smells wholly delectable. Even so, as she sails into view, tapping on the bars to alert him of her appearance, Vergil has already decided he doesn’t want either her peace offering or her sympathies. One of her hands is preoccupied with a lantern and the other is kept protectively over the flap of a satchel slung around shoulders. She glances behind her once, then to the other end of the corridor, then she faces the pinpoint glowing dots that make up Vergil’s stare from the far corner of the cell. He flashes his teeth as she approaches, a deep rumbling starting in his throat. 

Despite all that, he catches a whiff of the food she’s prepared and his stomach grumbles. Signora Benedetto smiles and shushes him good-naturedly, her pointer finger hovering over her lips as she beckons him closer. 

“I already told you,” Vergil says, pressing himself further back into the corner. “I don’t want your pity!” 

“It’s not pity, it’s food,” Signora Benedetto corrects, fishing a plastic container out of her satchel. The fragrance—a mingling garlic, butter, and strong herbs—intensifies, ardently wafting out more so now that there’s no lid to keep it contained. Vergil’s inner demons gnarls at him, practically yanking on the front of his shirt in a truly wretched display to get him to take the offering the offering. “And it’ll keep you alive.” 

Vergil mentally smacks his inner demon over the head with a sharp stick. He doesn’t need her help or her bribery or whatever it is she’s trying to suspend reality for. “I can keep myself alive.” 

“I would like it if you stayed alive too,” Signora Benedetto replies. She gestures for him to come to her again but Vergil resists—he doesn’t intend on heeding any of her bidding and her reply strikes him odd. Her tone was void of any frustration or silky-smooth deception, she didn’t try to guilt or delude him into believing her, she merely stated her inclinations as though she maintained he wouldn’t use her truthful innocence against her. Why would she care what happens to him? Kindness damned to the deepest parts of hell, she has no personal stakes in his survival. Like several times before, it springs to mind that the Order might be using her to get him to lower his guard or that this is some form of cognitive torment. With how long he’s been here, he’s no longer willing to put it past them to stoop to such lows and there’s at least one competent enough person working here who’s shrewd enough to suggest it. 

“You should eat,” she further affirms. She holds the container out for him. 

“I would rather  _ die,”  _ he grinds out. 

Signora Benedetto frowns at that, ominously silent. Her eyes rove over him, boring into every body part until they land on his arms, scarred and marred by the countless experiments and battles Vergil has undergone to entertain Dr. Agnus. For a brief second’s time, they seem to burn through his shirt and zero in on the thread-hewn, ragged flesh underneath and the thick muscle slinking away from his figure. 

“Do you?” she asks suddenly, voice hard and low. The sound is enough to provoke him into angling an icy glower at her, anticipating the threat. “Want to die?” She elaborates. “Because I’m almost certain you don’t.” 

“And what would you know, you naive wretch?” Vergil hisses. 

“I see you fighting back everyday,” Signora Benedetto says, lifting her chin in an act of obstinance. “You claw and thrash and shred everything in your way, always just a hair’s width from killing the chief alchemist. There’s a trail of bodies in your wake already.” The words steadily pour out of her, filling up the space like water streaming from the mountains, sending cracks crawling over the rock faces until they’re gushing out like deafening falls. “You don’t fear violence or blood, I could even argue that you revel in it.” She pauses, inhaling for a brief second to gather herself. Little does Vergil know, she’s merely winding up to loose the next volley of arrows. “If you threw yourself into the ocean, you would fight to survive. You don’t want to die, you want to kill. The only deaths you want are the ones that will bring you recompense.” 

Vergil opens his mouth to shoot back but finds himself completely unable to speak, as though Signora Benedetto has stolen all the words in the world and locked them up tight so he can’t use them for himself. He grinds his teeth together until they ache and streaks of pain shoot through his jaw. He wants to crush her and cut her tongue out so she can no longer use it to deconstruct him in such a methodical way. With a grating note of clarity, he realizes that everything she’s said rings true and he is  _ furious  _ about it. How dare she observe him? How dare she approach him to alert him of that?  _ How dare she?  _

“Now,” Signora Benedetto says, the hard edge still thick in her voice. She’s angry, he knows the emotion like an old friend. But unlike his raging fire, her anger is cold and bitter, gnawing at the vicinity with merciless abandon. “Come eat.” 

“I want everyone dead in this damned hell,” Vergil bites out. “Including you. You know this yet you dare attempt to feed me in spite of that?” 

“You need to eat,” Signora Benedetto explains and a sharp bark of laughter escapes Vergil’s mouth which she opts to ignore. “It doesn’t matter who you are. You don’t want to starve.” 

“What do you get out of this?” 

She doesn’t answer. The expression she wears isn’t one he’s seen—brows furrowed, frown pursed tight, eyes drawn distant as she thinks, manicured fingers lightly crinkling the paper cone full of food, and the sound so loud in the otherwise deafeningly silent corridor. She blows out a breath, reaches up to brush a loose strand of fiery auburn hair away from her face. 

“Nothing,” she says at length. Her tone is drained of her former irritation. Instead, exhaustion sidles into its place. She glances at him with a world-weary dullness and holds the food out for him once more. “Please, come eat.” 

Vergil studies her for a good long moment, seeing no trace of the once light-stepped, graceful lady who swayed in the darkness, cradling his child, fearlessly scolding men of higher-standing for their brutishness. He just sees a woman, rife with heartache and so tired of life, he sees  _ someone familiar.  _ A depth of coiling steadiness that he can reach out to and be unafraid of. Maybe it's because of the roiling deep or maybe he’s just lost all his sense, but he unfurls from the corner and assiduously slithers over to the bars of the cell and relieves Signora Benedetto of the food she prepared for him. He can’t see as well as he should, so he relies on smell alone and it triggers a salivating flood in his mouth. 

He can feel her eyes on him as he bites into the food and an avalanche of flavor spreads across his taste buds. Fluffy bread that comes apart between his teeth, soft cheese and garlic and herbs more delicious than anything he’s had in a long time, and a tough, stringy meat he’s never had before. He tears through the food in minutes, practically inhaling every bite and forcing it down despite the choking hazard until it sits warmly in his stomach. He exhales, almost in disappointment, as he casts shameful eyes on the paper wrapper and debates licking it. His internal argument is interrupted when Signora Benedetto pulls out another paper wrapper and provides the next course. This time, he doesn’t hesitate to seize hold and devour what’s given to him, despite knowing he’ll hate his weaknesses in the morning. 

By the time he’s gone through three more, his tongue swells and his mouth has the texture of a salted desert. He licks his chops and yawns, thinking that a nap sounds wonderful. He’s ready to retire and pointedly push this memory from his head to be confronted later when Signora Benedetto holds a leather flask through the bars. Vergil grasps it, unscrews the flash, and tilts the flask back into his mouth. A smoky strong liquid floods through and scours his throat as it goes down, burning not unlike the glass bottle he stole out of the dumpster as a child with the mistaken notion of it containing water. Heat steams in his throat and out through his nostrils with a vengeance. He sputters and coughs, wiping his lips with the back of his hand as he levels a teary glare at the flask with downright  _ fucking  _ betrayal. 

He’s pissed off again. He should know better. 

“It’s whiskey,” Signora Benedetto explains, as if seeing him about to dissolve into unnecessary shouting. “A light amount should help you sleep tonight.” 

Vergil doesn’t dare tell her he’s not going to obey the whims of a spiced drink. Rather, he shoves the flask back into Signora Benedetto’s hands, spins around, and leans all his weight against the bars of the cage, indicating he wishes to still his voice. He huffs out the rest of the heat stuck swirling in his throat and closes his eyes, hoping to meditate his mind. 

He listens as Signora Benedetto shuffles around behind him, packing up her satchel. He still hates her, but perhaps just little less now. 

**\---**

Their conversations are always so short. Vergil still despises talking to her but he finds an ironic sort of peace in letting her start the occasional brief discussion. He’s been so hardwired in his loneliness, believing himself capable of thriving off of it as his only state of being, that suddenly having company that gestures and speaks and  _ sings  _ is both welcome and nearly too exhausting to handle. Occasionally, she brings him food, other times she’ll swing by with Nero sequestered in her arms, but most nights they just sit in awkward silence. 

“You’re not sleeping? Aren’t you tired?” 

“Why does it matter to you?” 

No answer, at first. Just the light scratching of a pencil as Sienna— _ Sienna Benedetto,  _ he marvels over the name she introduced herself with the prior night, finding it strange yet fitting for a woman of her holiness—charts all of Nero’s growth in focused quietude. An inkling within Vergil suggests her records are much less clinical than she leads him to believe but he hasn’t pursued. If the need arises, he’s confident he’ll be able to track down all of Nero’s data himself. 

“It shouldn’t…” Sienna replies after some time. “But it does anyway. Even if it’s useless in the end, you should still take care of yourself, right?” 

Maybe he’s still addled by the idea that she wants to spend her time around him but Vergil can’t find a response to that. 

Truly, she’s a thorn in his side. 

**\---**

“Why do you work here?” Vergil asks one morning. He calculates fifteen minutes or so before the knights come to fetch him. 

Sienna glances up from her paperwork, pen caught between her lips. She keeps her ankles crossed and her knees pulled up as a steady surface to write on while she rests on the floor. She’s worked feverishly since she clocked in before sunrise, granting Vergil solace until she has to tend to Nero again. Her hair is crafted into her usual immaculate pleat, her clothes are neatly pressed, and the light of her lantern casts a glowing halo around her form. All this and the must of the dungeons doesn’t even touch her. It’s kind of admirable, in a mundane sort of way that Vergil wouldn’t know about. The feral wanderer he is has never had that luxury. 

“If not me, then who else?” Sienna finally says after mulling it over. 

Vergil tilts his head, questioning. 

“I’m the wife of the Supreme General, Fortuna’s second in command,” she explains in the most despondent tone he’s ever heard from her, enough that it rattles him bone-deep and to his core. “More than that, I have history with the Order. My previous job was research in demon biology, way before Dr. Agnus found a calling here, but my work was similar to that of his assistants. I did research, studied artifacts, charted demon behaviors. I met my husband here when we were both young and…”

She trails off, chewing on her bottom lip. 

“Naïve?” Vergil finishes with a smirk. 

Sienna shoots him a good-natured scowl. They exchange those more often than not lately, going back and forth using silent queues to tell one another ‘I can read you like a book.’ She knows his body language is painted with colors of wonder whenever she swings by with Nero in her arms. He knows the levels of fear she experiences when the general shields her from the doctor’s view. Vergil isn’t wrong about his word choice for the general and he flaunts it like so, shifting his position, every movement conducted thoughtfully as if mimicking a prideful peacock. 

“Yes,” she says slowly. “We were innocent, so innocent, and with so much faith. Like small children, we believed the world and all the people in it had good intentions. That despite the stones our path was paved in, our destination would bring happiness and peace.”

_ ‘Foolish,’  _ Vergil thinks.  _ ‘Who would fall for something so obviously false?’ _

_ You would,  _ a voice in his brain reminds him.  _ You traveled the island searching for your father’s secrets, you thought they were harmless. Misguided, but harmless. Now look where you are.  _

He mentally pulls out a lighter and attempts to light the voice on fire, futile as that is. The Order of the Sword has a cult following, that’s the most succinct way of putting it. Everyone falls in line like ducks in a row, lemmings eager to jump off the cliff if the act will please a dead man who no longer cares for their complacency. A good generation of them were born and raised on Fortuna, unknowing of any other life. How could they when their only sources of information on the mainland are smugglers with illegal goods—forbidden music engraved into vinyls, forbidden words printed on books, forbidden secrets whispered between confidants about the brilliant lights of the cities and the dim minds of the people where the veil between the worlds was thicker. Plumes of tobacco and bottles of whiskey sharper than the wine they sell in their shops. It must seem like such a distant dream, maybe even a nightmare to some of the holier members, a spark that can never be caught. How could he assume evil of unassuming people?

“It took years of work for me to realize that it was not so,” Sienna continues, pulling Vergil out of his thoughts. “When my ignorance melted away, I was left with nothing but horror and the choice to retire. “So, I married my husband, settled into his house, took an oath of silence to protect my life. Then I had two children and have been a steadfast mother for ten years.”

And suddenly, everything falls into place. It  _ clicks. _ Sienna spies the dawning realization on his face, standing on the precipice of elaboration. She twirls her pen mid-air. 

“It’s exactly what you think,” she says. “I was the Order’s first choice; they value me for my motherhood and for the fact that I am sworn to silence. I don’t think they expected to have a demon of this kind on their hands but they called me in once they realized they’d need someone to… ‘tame their experiment,’ so to speak.”

“Nero,” Vergil interjects automatically and instantly regrets it. 

Something in Sienna’s eyes flickers, surprise maybe. She schools herself before saying anything else, but he catches brief cues suggesting she has questions and she intends to gain answers. 

“Nero? You’ve chosen Nero as the name for your child?” 

Vergil visibly balks at the notion of Nero being acknowledged as his child. Nero is _a child,_ holding onto immense power _._ That’s all Vergil will allow himself to feel. Nero didn’t choose to have such demonic energies imprinted on him, neither did Vergil when he was born with it. But Vergil did technically choose Nero’s name, even as a misreading, and he’ll enforce it before he ever concedes to referring to Nero as a number. 

“Yes,” he affirms, assumptions notwithstanding. He can feel a flush of heat crawling up his neck and cheeks, so he vehemently motions for her to move on before the embarrassment kills him. 

Sienna’s eyes take on a dangerous, sharp glint as they study him, watch for even the slightest tell that he’s accepted his position—he hasn’t, even if fear overtook him so long ago. Vergil’s only thought then is that he can see how she and the Supreme General fit together as husband and wife. 

“My children are fortunate,” She says, graciously letting it go. Her expression falls and goes distant, feeling as though she doesn’t truly believe her own words. The haunting chill of the dungeons grows heavier, sinking down with every syllable that escapes her mind and mouth. “I’ll make sure they will get to grow up with a mother and father who will care for, love, and cherish them each day. But Nero? Had I declined the Order’s offer, then what would Nero have? Who would be caring for him in my place? The orphanage matron? Any of the jaded friends who I know have retired from the Order as well? Babies are sensitive, they’re born into this world able to love and do so freely. He deserves to have at least one person in his life who will reciprocate that love. If not me, then who else?”

An echo of melancholy rings out, asking apathetically if her statement is true. If so, does that mean Vergil deserved a mother who loved him as well? Deserved the same rescue and care and attention she gave Dante on that fateful night? He watched his house burn in the distance, become nothing more than a dying star, surrounded by skeletal grinning demons, all while his mother carried his brother to safety. He violently dismembers that memory. His mother abandoned him. Sienna is different, she chooses to nurture and love when she doesn't need to, outpouring her adoration in warm torrents that create a soothing balm on his soul. 

“If it's... any consolation,” Vergil replies after a while, stiff with reluctance. “I appreciate that it’s not someone else caring for Nero.”

Sienna peers at him, shocked for the second time during their conversation. Her lips pull upward to reveal the smile lines left by her age. Also for the second time, Vergil mourns his inability to keep his mouth shut around this wretched woman. It’s her turn to be cocky now. 

“Vergil,” Sienna says, nearly sliding into a croon. “Are you admitting that you like having me around?”

“I’m not repeating myself,” Vergil snaps, teeth bared. Why must she tease him about everything he does? “Have a scribe write it down if it pleases you so much.”

Sienna opens her mouth, no doubt to heckle him more since he can’t do a damn thing to stop her but the dungeon’s doors swing open with a vengeance and a collection of heavy boots beat the stone floor, reminding them of their places in the Order’s possession. She finishes scribbling on her clipboard and rises, pulling her hood over her face to avoid the strange looks she’s soon to receive. 

“I better go,” she murmurs, making herself small with her head bowed. “Nero needs his breakfast.” 

She offers him one more kind look as she glides past his cell. “I hope you’re able to rest well after this.” 

**\---**

“Nero…” Vergil’s lost in a haze of drugged concern. He doesn’t remember most of the day’s occurrences or why the looming sense of weakness he’s been plagued with for so long is more intense. Each time he tries to blink into the abyss, all he finds is an impenetrable mist carrying harried commands and tearful screams, something wet splattering across the floor, and the croaking final breaths of a researcher after Vergil tore into them. He does, however, remember seeing Nero’s chubby, smiling face and his hands reaching out for him, unaware of just how much peril he lives in. 

“He’s okay.” 

Silence. 

“Why is he here?” Vergil swallows the lump in his throat. He’s tried asking this question before and was met with choked quietude but this time he’ll risk being damned for a vocal confirmation. “What- what do they want with him?” 

“You’re smart, Vergil,” Sienna explains. “I think you know the answer.” 

Vergil hesitantly recalls Dr. Agnus spitting his words in the meeting room so long ago, his accusations hurled against General Benedetto about soldiers and the unstoppable force of Sparda’s blessing. The Order figured out ages ago why Vergil would be inadequate as their mindless weapon. They peered into his furious, writhing, fighting spirit, grew more distraught with every life he stole from their arsenal, and were forced to acknowledge that he simply wouldn’t submit to their lofty, laughable notions of an ideal and sinless world. 

It’s why they’ve chosen to punish him and give his powers to someone who will voluntarily serve them. Nero will never know why he does so but if the Order plays their cards right, then he won’t need to. 


	11. Il Cavaliere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sienna does something to the effect of being kind, the general risks everything he's got despite Vergil's obstinence.

With the dire straits of his situation becoming more real by the day, Vergil is in an excellent position to consider the possibility that Sienna Benedetto has a death wish. Unfortunately, it's a little hard to when he's rolling on the floor, clutching his ribs and gasping for breath because she just pulled off a flawless imitation of Dr. Agnus in the peak of his theatrics, all while cushioning Nero's head with practiced ease and eliciting squealing laughter from the child by blowing raspberries into his belly.

"Don't ever do that again," Vergil seethes after several minutes. He pulls himself to his feet, using the bars on his cell as a support system.

Sienna only smiles, giving emphasis to the lines underneath her eyes and the dimples dotting her cheeks.

It's been a few weeks since Sienna yielded to the crushing agony of laying herself and her heart bare for Vergil and it's horrifyingly inundating for him. A never ending river of joy gushes from her soul, constantly sparking, debilitating in the way it vies for his attention, how it roars like a lion, screaming: 'WITNESS ME. I AM UNSTOPPABLE.' Underneath it is a swilling, rippling kindness that never seems to fade and is almost cooling in the way it submerges him, makes him feel as though he's sinking into a brisk lake to tranquilize the aftermath of a bloody ambush. It's this clear view of her that Sienna has let him be privy to and though different to the peaceful solitude of the dungeons in the dead of night, he finds it soothing and dare he say, better.

In between her visits with him, he sometimes catches her few and far interactions with the Order members and he finds they're a stark contrast to the ones she reserves for him.

She's quiet and conservative with the general, always submitting to him first. She's disciplined and professional when in the presence of the vicar, sticking to short, simple sentences full of clinical terms used to describe Nero. Out of all of them, Dr. Agnus has the least amount of patience with her as he cannot decipher any reason the vicar would anoint her to nurturing a test subject of all things. Most of their exchanges comprise General Benedetto edging into the room and marching to stand between her and the mad doctor who she cowers from, clearly terrified.

Vergil would move to defend her in these events if he didn't know that doing so would already imperil her more than she already imperils herself. She's risky, a beacon of hope, draws trouble to her like moths to a flame but Vergil has come to accept that she's too stubborn to quit. Maybe he's validated by basking in the presence of someone as impulsive as he is or maybe being the Order's lab rat has stolen all the sense from him. Either way, he's stuck with her and Nero, and he doesn't necessarily despise it.

An abrupt squeal pierces the air, taking Vergil's attention to it immediately. Nero flails his little claws around, still swathed in Sienna's hold as she makes silly faces at him. Something swells and bursts in Vergil's chest, pushing his heart up against the walls of his ribcage, much more suffocating than his feelings have the right to be. He's lacked subtlety since his childhood, both in his house and on the run, so it's no commendable feat that Sienna takes notice.

The method of which her amusement shows slides across her expression in a cocked brow and smugness tugging her mouth upward.

"Do you want to hold him?" She asks.

Vergil startles at the question. A silvery flash jingles in her hand as she sails over to the cell door. Before he can puzzle out the reason why or even  _ how  _ she achieved such a thing, she twists the keys in the lock and steps inside. Vergil's mouth falls open. If he had any of the calculating bits of himself left, he would have shoved them both out of the way and made his escape but alas, he'll just have to cope with his absence of foresight later.

"I can't let you out," Sienna says as she approaches him. "But there's no rule saying I'm not allowed inside."

She pauses for a moment, eyes scanning Vergil as he tries to comprehend the sight, the action,  _ anything.  _ She's been in his cell before, to nurture his wounds. But that had been out of kindness. This is... something entirely selfish, he's sure.

"Do you want to hold him?" She repeats.

Though she offers, Vergil suspects she isn't going to give him much of a choice in the matter. He's long since given up trying to combat her kindness away and he has just enough honor left not to attack her because even if she's not in the clear—she willingly abetted the Order beforehand, after all—she _ is  _ remorseful. Vergil can't say he respects her but at the very least he feels no need to murder her in cold blood.

With that thought in mind, he pulls his mouth shut, swallows the lump in his throat, and nods, almost numb with shock. He should just be used to this by now, he knows that but something in his brain misfires as she gently places Nero into his arms. Her tender, flawless hands brush against his as she helps him relocate his hold into an acceptable one, leaving warmth buzzing in their wake. His heart thrums in his head and heat flushes to his cheeks, he's almost dizzy as she spellbinds him once more.

"Now, just support his head a little more. There you go."

It's only once she pulls away from him that Vergil snaps his focus down to the babe in his arms, swaddled in a velvety, dark fabric. Nero coos, sucking on one of his hands as he stares up Vergil with childish wonder. The feeling in his chest balloons up further, squashing his heart flat. A soft, almost giddy chuckle bubbles out of him before he can stop it and Nero does his damndest to replicate it with a wet hiccup soon to follow.

Vergil feels like an utter moron, beguiled by this child that isn't even his.

But a rush of power deluges into him. Nero’s own responding swell of power rises up to meet his with no effort.  _ No effort,  _ his mind echoes. Nero's barely a baby and he has a grasp on these unfathomable powers and Vergil's overflowing with a mix of fear and pride at the realization.

After a while, he manages to stomp it down. Nero is still a baby, he shouldn't need to have a grasp on these powers. Not the way Vergil was forced to.

Sienna must catch his sudden desire to part because she reaches down to take Nero from Vergil's arms. It's at that moment the deliberate scream of the dungeon's entrance resonates through the corridor. Both Sienna and Vergil go rigid, shivering, barely-contained panic shooting through them in earnest. The knights aren't due to collect Vergil for several more hours, that they're both certain of. Yet the patterned marching of a knight on patrol makes headway down the corridor regardless.

Vergil can't offer an explanation for his next course of action, if someone asked he'd be more likely to snap their arm off in irritation than actually answer. His brain fizzles out at this moment, more instinct than logic fueling him as he pushes Sienna and Nero behind him and slides into a fighting position. 

The knight clad in pure, simple colors treads to a stop outside the cell. A heavy, nearly painful-sounding sigh of relief comes from Sienna as she catches sight of the soldier-

It's just General Benedetto.

(A strange thought to be sure.  _ 'Just General Benedetto?'  _ When did the general become a simple 'just?')

_ "Amore..."  _ General Benedetto breathes, surprisingly unconscious of his affectionate term for Sienna. "What are you doing down here? It's dangerous."

"I know that," Sienna replies, stepping out from behind Vergil.

General Benedetto's eyes follow the movement, flitting between her, the baby in her arms, and the demon he's been keeping on a tight leash for so long.

"I understand you've made a habit of coming down here," General Benedetto says. He tries to fight the fear mounting in him but he's failing miserably, Vergil can tell. He knows anxiety like this on an intimate level. "But you should know better than to do something so compulsive such as opening the door when there's no one around to safeguard you. Especially when you have Experiment Zero to be wary of."

Vergil feels his eye twitch but chokes down the angry urge to correct the general on Nero's name nonetheless. Now's not the time.

"Marito..." Sienna trails off for a moment. She tilts her head in Vergil's direction. "Vergil won't hurt me. You don't have to be afraid."

General Benedetto flinches at her casual use of the moniker then turns to level an icy glare at Vergil. Vergil gives him no reaction despite the hysteria building up inside him. A barrage of questions hurtles through him and he has to wonder what exactly it is the general thinks he's done to Sienna. Hypnotized her? How laughable. General Benedetto opens his mouth to chide her and much to everyone's shock, she returns with the same amount of no-nonsense in her voice.

_ "Sienna." _

_ "Gabriel." _

_ 'Gabriel?'  _ Vergil lets his thoughts careen into too-inappropriate-for-the-situation territory for just a moment. 'Gabriel' seems a little on the nose for a literal warrior of god.

Maybe Vergil is simply resigned to his mind scattering at the worst of times to really pull himself together. Regardless, his thoughts eventually return when an amused chortle bleeds out from Gabriel, and a deep, cherry red blush blooms on his face. He scrabbles for purchase against the impossible woman standing before him, her face splitting into a grin as she dances over to the steel bars separating them.

"I'm unhurt, amore," she says gently.

Gabriel laughs just the slightest bit more and Vergil suddenly comprehends that it isn't just him who reacts this way, floundering and entranced in the signora's presence. No, Sienna just has that effect on  _ everyone,  _ and it's chiefly true for the general.

Something else wells up in Vergil's gut, mysteriously gyrating out of his reach. He's always believed Sienna chose to set aside this behavior for him, saved all of her sweet smiles and gentleness and teasing for him alone, and candidly he should have known that was never the case. General Gabriel Benedetto is  _ her husband  _ and while she's never had anything demeaning to say about the man, Vergil had taken her silence to mean she had nothing good to offer either.

Apparently, he was wrong. 

The feeling bulges up into his chest, furiously out of reach. Watching Sienna and Gabriel make jabs and comfort one another, both laughing and carefree, it's like any early wrinkles or fatigue brought on by age melts away and they're young again, fearless against the world. It's clear that they're happy in their marriage, a pair of turtledoves bonded for life, and it's with this cognizance that a stab of bitterness impales Vergil. He knows now what this feeling is.  _ It’s jealousy.  _ Oh, how he hates himself for it, hates himself for an emotion he's above suffering, especially with how immature it turns him into. 

_ 'There's nothing to be jealous of,' _ Vergil tells himself, even knowing he's wrong. Not only has Sienna dedicated her life to this man, she's also far older than Vergil, fully bloomed, and the mother of two children. Besides, he's never considered their relationship as anything more than her kindness and generosity. She's... his friend and he's satisfied if not disgruntled that she wormed her way into his life the way she did.

No, he's not jealous, not of either of them, alone. He's not jealous of  _ them, together. _ They're free to do as they please, to come and go from the dungeons, to live in peace without fear they're going to be killed by demons at a moment's notice. He's not jealous and his heart does not traitorously yearn for a similar life, far away from the Order where he can exist in safety and happiness.

He's not jealous. He's fine and he can live in his denial.

"My apologies, amore," Gabriel says, pulling away from his beloved. "But unfortunately, I'm on orders to retrieve the divine blessing for Dr. Agnus. He has something he wants to go over."

Vergil scoffs. Briefly, the thought of strangling the general crosses his mind but one glimpse at Sienna, her visage twisted into a mourning woman shrouded in black, and he incinerates the idea. He goes with Gabriel willingly, despite the rough hold he has on Vergil’s arms as they navigate the winding corridors. He takes note of each possible escape route, stretches the bare remnants of his powers out to discern the faint wailing of Yamato from deity knows where in the laboratory, calculates how to slip out of the general’s hold. He isn’t an easy man to outwit, Vergil’s had that repeatedly pounded into his head. 

At every opportunity, if it isn’t Dr. Agnus tightening his chains to the Order, it’s Gabriel. He was the man who herded Vergil into a trap in the first place, lashed his now vulnerable skin with the Order’s angel tears, caught him when no one else proved clever enough, apt enough. He’s always the final obstacle in Vergil’s way, the stumbling block that refuses to dislodge no matter how hard he pushes at it. He’s- 

_ Jerking Vergil off balance.  _

Vergil’s fight or flight reflex hurtles straight into overdrive and the world spins around on its axis at least twice as he struggles to get it under control. His demon screams, desperate to explode out of Vergil’s body, throw the remaining shreds of his caution to the wind, claw the general into twisting ribbons and leave his innards here to reek. A pungent, coppery odor assaults Vergil’s nose, a minty, light green light bathes his vision, and the biting, metal floor underneath him suddenly begins to rattle and shake when it dawns on him where  _ here  _ is: the elevator connecting the labs to Fortuna Castle. 

Gabriel releases Vergil for a half second, barely giving him a second’s worth to recover before all but tearing the zipper off a duffle bag, previously unseen, and shoving a bundle of stiff, off-white fabric directly into Vergil’s chest. The boy in question glares down at the fabric, barely a few shades lighter and cleaner than his scrubs, which have seen weeks of wear, tear, and filth. Aside from the faint maroon and gold highlights barely peeking out, it has no ornamentation, no fanciful accessories, and feels like cardboard wrapped in tissue. Vergil knows what it is immediately—a junior knight’s uniform. He gapes his mouth open and closed like a fish at the sheer audacity presented before him. 

“Put that on, we don’t have much time.” 

“You-” Vergil splutters, his shrieking, metal walls throwing themselves up as his demon snarls from behind them, daring the general to continue with this mockery. He doesn’t quite understand what’s going on, but he’s got the slightest bit of an inkling. Besides, he’s never listened to the knights when they tried to control him before, whatever makes Gabriel think he will this time is a spiraling enigma of epic proportions. “If you think I’m going to heed you, general-” 

“We’re almost to the top!” Gabriel shouts, grabbing the material from Vergil’s hands and unfurling it with automatic and practiced movements. “If you’re seen without that, then we’ll both be in trouble. There is no time to argue. Now,  _ put it on!”  _

Having finished his spiel with gritted teeth, Gabriel ceremoniously chucks the trousers at his face then uses the rest of his energy to drape the overcoat around Vergil’s shoulders. Vergil tears the offending article away from him and catches a glimpse of Gabriel’s posture, tense and stony, scowling at the door as if waiting for a knot of intruders to barge in at any second. Figuring he’s not going to get answers anytime soon, he begrudgingly begins to pull the knight’s uniform over his scrubs, damning himself to discomfort before the shame of undressing in the elevator. He does his best to mimic how the uniform is worn, fumbling over half the buttons before Gabriel rolls his eyes, grabs Vergil by the lapels, and finishes securing them with a few deft flicks, uncaring of the utter look of offense Vergil shoots at him. 

“Swallow your pride,” Gabriel commands, practically throwing a pair of heavy, black boots right at him. “Neither of us can afford its costs.”

Vergil quietly seethes as he yanks the boots on, bearing his teeth with intentions to bite when Gabriel’s hands hover over the laces and buckles decorating the overly pompous things. He struggles to keep his balance as he puts more vehemence into wearing them than is strictly necessary. Not that he cares. He straightens up just in time for Gabriel to fling the Order’s mandated hood over his head and fix the clasp, regardless of whether Vergil wants him to. The hood falls down to conceal his face just in time for the elevator to clatter to a stop. It opens up into the Order’s grand hallway, stealing the rest of Vergil’s protests with a flood of golden light. 

“Keep your head low and match your stride with mine,” Gabriel whispers, nudging Vergil out into the hallway. “The less conspicuous you are, the better.” 

There’s no conceivable reason Vergil should obey but he’s unable to resist coming to heel. The two of them venture into the brilliant hallways, side by side in perfect step as they stride underneath the towering, ornate arches and patterns of glimmering crystal chandeliers, their little spectacles casting a thousand mini spotlights on them as they pass. Vergil keeps his eyes mostly to the dark, marble floor, only occasionally snatching glances at the lines of artefacts or the mammoth-sized portraits of Sparda’s over exaggerated image and trying hard not to gag.

Vergil isn’t so inclined to relive his childhood, not when his memories only give him the blaze that devoured his home and a shuddering partition composed of static. He may not remember much of his father save for the way Dante would cry whenever he raised his voice or the silhouettes of his parents waltzing in the dark to their favorite old song as it spun on the record player. But what he does remember is that his father was warm and loving, with a gentle, human face. Nothing at all like what these pictures paint him as. 

Heavy, even footsteps lift Vergil out of his reverie. Gabriel gently pushes him to the side so as to press themselves up against the wall, heads bowed in respect as a small, patrolling militia passes by. He nods, a gesture of respect, waiting for them to vanish before he kicks Vergil in the ankles as if to ask a horse to move forward. Vergil’s on the precipice of throwing an insult at Gabriel for that when they veer around the corner and nearly smack into the last person either of them need to meet for the night. 

“General,” Dr. Agnus curls his lips at the sight of them. Immediately, Vergil’s eyes go down, his body seizing at the doctor’s sickly baritone washes over him. 

“Dr. Agnus.” There’s a sudden change in Gabriel’s tone. It’s harder now, gruff and hoarse and commanding the very room, as if just its sound could diminish the light of the chandeliers. “You’re out and about headquarters. What an… unexpected surprise.” It clicks then. He sounds like himself. General Benedetto. “How can I help you?” 

Vergil tunes out most of the ensuing conversation, fixating his gaze on the floor per the general’s commands. He observes, pulse thudding in his ears like an orchestra of timpani drums drowning out the combative duo as they hurl their voices at each other. The wound on his torso throbs as the uniform bears down on it, squeezing it tight against his ribs and stomach, aching with the urge for coolness. Vergil squeezes his hands behind his back, biting down on his lip, distracting himself with the single pearl of blood it draws. 

“As you well know, I am the leader of the Holy Knights. I do not have to seek permission from you to enter your hellish laboratory.” 

“Hellish!? You watch your mouth, general. My laboratories are the peak of scientific research! I won’t have you-” 

“That’s  _ enough! _ ” General Benedetto barks. “My patrol circuits are approved by the vicar himself. If you have a problem with them, take it up with him.” 

Dr. Agnus gives the distinct impression he’s going to explode, if the abrupt vibrating of his body is anything to go by. Vergil can feel his body beginning to give him away as the violent trembling of his fear starts in his arms and travels up his shoulders. He bites down onto his lip harder and stomps on his own feet with his boots.  _ ‘Stop it,’  _ he scolds himself, shaking his head.  _ ‘Don’t be so ridiculous. Keep it together!”  _

“Ah,” Dr. Agnus breathes suddenly. Vergil freezes, not needing to see Agnus’s eyes to know he’s staring at him. “And who might this be?” 

Vergil considers opening his mouth to find an excuse for himself or perhaps to reveal his presence as a means of shocking Agnus just long enough to run General Benedetto’s sword through his gut. It’s impulsive. Vergil’s eyes flick to the gleaming blade anyway. Benedetto must see his plan or have a vague idea of how to predict Vergil’s actions, because he jumps to his defense before any hasty decisions can be made. 

“A junior knight who was damaged during training,” he explains quickly. He shifts himself underneath Vergil to give Agnus the impression that he’s carrying one of his inferiors to safety, his hand wrapping tightly around his waist. If Vergil were even the slightest bit more uncomfortable in this position, he probably would have squeaked like a chew toy. “I’m taking him to the infirmary to be treated.” 

“I see…” Dr. Agnus leans down as if to scrutinize Vergil on a more intimate plane of existence. The patent lack of space and the worming, humid aura of discomfort forces Vergil to suck in the rest of his breath and fight hard the urge to squirm like an eel mounted on a spear. 

“Which means,” Benedetto says hurriedly, all but hoisting Vergil onto his hip in much the manner a parent would for a small child. “We really should be going. The infirmary is still quite a journey away.” He babbles on, steadily losing his composure as is  _ not appropriate  _ for the Supreme General of the Holy Knights of the Order of the Sword, the title itself strangulating Vergil’s esophagus as they awkwardly step around Agnus in hopes of slipping away before their situation worsens. As they go, Benedetto throws his voice over his shoulder once more, a sly smile crossing his lips as he goes. “You’re dismissed, doctor!” 

They don’t stay to watch Agnus blow up on them. Benedetto pulls Vergil headlong down the corridor and around a corner where they break into a dead sprint. Enraged howling dogs them as their feet pound against the floor in rapid repetition, carrying them through a whirl of gold and bronze. A salvo of sharp laughter breaks free from Vergil’s chest, a sound so sweet and genuine he nearly asphyxiates on the mere notion of it. For as long as they hurtle to get away from Dr. Agnus, it doesn’t quite seem like enough. They carreen to a stop, a half second away from tripping over each other, when Benedetto grips Vergil’s arm and yanks them both behind a curtain. 

Not seconds later, Dr. Agnus tramples by, bellowing at the top of his lungs. “DISMISS ME?! YOU DO NOT DISMISS ME, GENERAL!!!” 

The next few seconds pass in a sweltering contest to see who can hold their breaths the longest. Vergil composes himself well enough but one fleeting glimpse at Benedetto's stoic face tells him he’s got stiff competition. Agnus putters around the hallway, muttering and chafing with his stumbling words. He lingers there for longer than is comfortable, his presence constantly radiating heat, a broken furnace incapable of killing its flames, a volcano splitting the earth apart with smoke and magma. Beads of sweat begin to form on Vergil’s face by the time Agnus declares they aren’t in this area of headquarters and trundles away, footsteps fading into the distance. Benedetto shatters the quietude first, falling out of the curtains with Vergil closely in tow. They glance at one another, each fisting their hands into the fabric above their drumming hearts, their lungs and chest ablaze with the fires of trepidation as they gasp for air. 

Then they burst into gales of laughter.

The sound is loud and euphoric and  _ careless,  _ capable of attracting even the farthest of threats but unrelenting nonetheless. It runs its course through Vergil’s body like a warm wave, more powerful than any flowing relief he’s had the fortune of knowing. After a short while of this, a second of paranoid listening when something rattles nearby, and more reignited laughing, they do reach a point where their brains collect back into rational thought once more. 

“We’ve fooled around enough,” Gabriel finally says once they’ve recovered their breath. “Any minute now the Order could realize you’re gone, then you’ll never be allowed to leave.” 

The brightening mirth of the atmosphere evaporates. Where Vergil once struggled to regain himself, he now brims with silent fury. The bubbling underneath his skin races upward, precipitous and unforeseen. Absent one second, present the next, his inner demon trying to claw its way out of his core. He can’t help the hiss that sluices from his lips. Gabriel’s expression quickly contorts into a glower but before he can say a single word, Vergil’s hand shoots out to grab him. He graces the corridor with a quick, sweeping look. His eyes land on an archway that looks like an entrance to the void, like someone cut out a piece of the night sky and secured it down into the headquarter's hallway.  _ The courtyard, _ Vergil’s mind supplies. With one swift movement, he heaves Gabriel out into the cold, dark air. 

Gabriel stumbles, grappling for his hood when Vergil wrenches it off. Out in the center of the courtyard, Vergil’s eyes roam the general’s figure, absorbing every detail. Though there is only the moon to cast light upon him, his pale face cuts a seeable shape. He’s clean shaven, jaw set in the same rigid bearing as the rest of him. His narrow eyes shine in the night, hard silver covering up their true color. His dark, reddish-brown hair is pulled back into a long and low ponytail cascading down his back. A few spare strands, tugged loose by Vergil’s actions, frame his face and curl over his ears. His strong, bracing stature shifts into a steady, strong brace, awaiting a fight. 

“Give that back to me.” 

_ “No.”  _

The general then throws the rest of his patience out the window and tackles him. They collapse onto the ground in a heap, scuffling for rights to the hood. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Vergil hisses. 

“I can ask the same of you.” 

“You-” Vergil wheezes, unsuspecting of the lightning quick way Gabriel pulls them both into standing upright. He keeps his hand tightly wrapped around the hood. “You’re trying to help me escape-  _ why?” _

“Let go!” 

_ “WHY ARE YOU HELPING ME?”  _

The sound of ripping fabric tears the air apart. Vergil has one second to lay eyes on the fraying threads and the split fabric in his hands when Gabriel cracks, eyes hardened even more. He hurls a fist. Vergil’s head snaps back with the force of the impact and he tumbles back onto the ground, blood gushing from his nose. 

“I’m not doing this  _ for you _ ,” Gabriel says. He disentangles the rest of his hood from Vergil’s fingers, meandering back a few steps, a scowl deeply etched into his features. He stands that way for a few moments, eying Vergil as he pants, holding his palms over his nose to stem the bleeding. There must be an unwitting, pained look on Vergil’s face, one he’s going to despise himself for showing later, because Gabriel’s expression softens. He crouches down, smoothing the hood out over his hand. He gingerly brings Vergil’s hands down and presses the cloth against his nose. Wrong choice. 

“Get off me!” Vergil slaps Gabriel’s hands away. He narrows his eyes and flashes his fangs. “I’ll heal.” 

“You won’t,” Gabriel says and it just pisses Vergil off further. He squirms and attempts to summon the scraps of his demonic power, even the barest flicker of a mirage blade. But it refuses to show. Gabriel rolls his eyes and reaches through the fading shield of power to secure Vergil by his shoulders, though it’s more like trying to restrain a wiggly ferret. 

“Relax,” Gabriel commands. Vergil continues to wiggle around and even resorts to winding his legs back in an attempt to kick the general. Gabriel eventually manages to snag Vergil by the collar of his uniform. “Dammit, hold still! I need to fix my mistake.” 

Vergil facefaults into the hood against his will, mentally clotheslined by that last statement. His eyes peer out from behind the cloth in an angry stare. 

“Don’t give me that look,” Gabriel goes on. He gingerly cradles Vergil’s back, keeping the cloth steady as it soaks up the blood. There’s an unspoken ‘we will not bring this up later’ floating in the space between them and it is with a fizzling, stirring note of frustration that Vergil feels how soft and gentle Gabriel is. After a short while, once they’ve gotten the result of their scuffle under control. Vergil watches with curiosity as Gabriel sighs and plops down into the grass. “I should’ve known you would be too stubborn to go along with this.” 

The next words leave Vergil’s mouth before he can stop them. “Why are you helping me?” 

Gabriel offers him an incredulous look, then gazes up at the sky as if under the impression that will get him out of Vergil’s semi-interrogation. 

“Why are you helping me?” Vergil repeats. 

_ “La vita mia…”  _ Gabriel whispers, burying his face in his hands. There’s a groaning, exhausted edge to his voice as if fatigue has drained years of life from his very being. When he lifts his head again, Vergil no longer sees the steely, hard-hearted general that set about his capture in the first place. He just sees a man, dark circles under his faded eyes, aching for rest he cannot have. He just sees a man, ordinary and feeble, unable to bear the weight of the world any longer. “I may not have the same bank of knowledge on demonology Agnus does but even I know this ritual he is planning is dangerous. It will do more harm than good, cause casualties I cannot prevent. It’s my duty to protect the people, if getting you as far away from here as possible will ensure that, then I will do as I always have, and risk my life to get the job done.” 

He pauses, his voice dropping into low, affectionate tones that Vergil  _ knows  _ off the bat he only reserves for the lights of his life. “And…  _ la vita mia,  _ my wife, our family, I can’t put them in danger for this pursuit of power. It’s not worth it.” 

There’s something bittersweet rising in Vergil’s sternum as he registers the explanation. Sienna had mentioned their children and her protectiveness over them, how her motherly instincts extended to Nero. Vergil has a mixed bag of emotions about that sort of maternal love, partly due to how little she’s required to do that, partly due to the keening demon within him that’s taken to shrieking “mine” over and over again whenever Sienna says something to the effect of  _ nursing  _ Nero.

“I can’t leave,” Vergil finally says, a hollow pang going through him. 

Gabriel jolts at the sudden break of words, steals a second to think, then stares at Vergil dead on, his eyebrows furrowing and his frown deepening. His lips part in a volley of words harsher than expected. 

“And why the hell not?” He snarls. “You’ve been trying to get out of here for months and  _ now  _ suddenly you decide you have to stay!?” 

“My amulet… and the Yamato,” Vergil grinds out, a dull throb growing in his jaw as he narrows his eyes at the general. “They were gifts from my parents. I can’t leave without them.” 

_ “Dio santo…”  _ Gabriel pulls a hand down his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Getting those is impossible. The doctor keeps them on his person at all times. When they’re not with him, they’re tightly locked up.”

Well, that explains why Yamato was in a different place every night. 

“I have to try. They’re…”  _ they’re all I’ve got left of my family,  _ Vergil won’t say. It’s too sentimental, too capable of untethering him from this plane of existence and carrying him deep into parts of his psyche he’s not ready to venture into. “They’re the sources of my strength. If I lose those, I lose any means of protecting myself.” 

“I can’t get them for you. It’s impossible. Even if I knew where they were, I’d have no idea how to break the wards Agnus puts on them. They’re too complex, even the Order’s top archivist can’t-”

“I can. All wards have a weak spot and so long as the Yamato is behind one, I’ll be able to set it free. Yamato and I… we are the same, tied together by one feeling. I call it and it calls me.” 

Gabriel looks uncertain, even with the assurance that Vergil can handle this. “If… if I can find the location… and take you to your beloved sword... Then-” 

“That’s all I need. As soon as I have my things, I will go.” 

For a brief second’s time, Gabriel’s face seems to fall, resigned to the promise. But Vergil is sure he’s just imagining things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merp! I apologize for no update last week. Work sucked my soul out but it's here now, 5000+ words, and a whole bunch of dumb Vergil with his shrieking lizard brain. I'm probably way too behind on everything else for my own good so after this story is done, I'm probably going to be taking a massive break from posting anything that isn't the occasional one-shot. 
> 
> For sanity's sake, I suppose I'll include the translations for the Italian phrases used in this chapter. 
> 
> Amore - Love, a term of endearment. Another use of it also goes 'Amore Mio' (My love.)   
> Marito - Husband, also a term of endearment. Used when a wife is addressing her husband.   
> La vita mia - My life. Again, a term of endearment, since I clearly have no impulse control. Gabriel uses this one when he's thinking about his family.  
> Dio Santo - Oh, my God. Pretty self-explanatory.


	12. Il Diavolo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Gabriel works to find the Yamato, Sienna focuses on soothing as much pain as she can, and in the process, Vergil learns a thing or two more about them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HA. AHAHA.  
> Yeah, so this chapter is filler with some important tidbits and I'm very sorry about that but hey, all the important stuff goes down next chapter. Hang in, there, guys, I promise we're so close to the end.

“You should have taken my offer,” Gabriel whispers. 

Their footsteps echo off the stark, white walls as they stroll through the laboratory, pointedly avoiding the routes most common to Dr. Agnus and his scurrying little researchers— _rats,_ Vergil provides to himself. His eyes roll so far back into his head they disappear for a moment and he considers using that particularly useless skill to whirl on Gabriel and scare the living daylights out of him. For his own amusement, if nothing else, because he’s sure listening to the usually steely general scream in terror would be beyond worth it. 

“I might reconsider…” Vergil trails off. 

Gabriel shoots him a bemused look, one brow arched as his eyes bore holes into the back of his head. “You will?”

“If you can get the Yamato for me. And my amulet.” 

The noise strangling itself in Gabriel’s throat is akin to a snort and a scoff. As if that wasn't already what he was going to be forced into doing. 

“Of course, don’t know why I expected anything else.” 

Vergil clicks his tongue. “Predictable human.”

“Wretched demon.” 

**\---**

“You know, you should be more careful when taunting the doctor,” Sienna says, occupying her nimble fingers on a wheeled, metallic table. 

Vergil tilts his head back and takes a whiff of the air, the stench of antiseptic more pungent than usual. Over a decade of solitude has taught him to keep his expectations low and himself as covert as possible, the combination of which has led him to the laboratories once more, this time in the dead of night. Gabriel stands vigilant at the door, his ears pricked to even the slightest shuffle on the other end while his wife flits about the room in search of the few, premium condition tools Dr. Agnus keeps handy. He has no cognizance of the words spoken to convince him to trust her but he’s almost certain bribery was involved. Nero wouldn’t be cradled in his arms otherwise. 

Tufts of white hair sticks up at weird angles on top of Nero’s head. His beastly little claws are tucked against his chest with the help of his blanket while he fidgets and mumbles in his sleep, making a cute, mystifying noise that makes the warmth of the sun bloom inside him. Vergil has reached a point where he’s started ignoring the garbled shrieking of his inner demon whenever it’s in Nero’s proximity, granted it doesn’t require much effort when most of his demon has been sucked out and is currently flowing through the laboratories infrastructure. Aside from Nero, there isn’t the barest inkling of what the Order intends to do with the extensive reservoirs they’ve collected from him. 

“And why is that?” Vergil inquires, then Sienna shoots him a  _ look  _ that he stubbornly rejects paying any attention to. He shuffles and pouts, turning his gaze to a far wall.  _ Fair enough,  _ he admits to no one but himself. Because every attempt to belittle Agnus or lie him down below Vergil as a meager insect has resulted in nothing but pain and the desire for vengeance of the dirty sort. 

Too much of this humiliating interaction later has Sienna removing Nero from a nearly remorseful Vergil and setting him aside into a baby carrier, far enough away to be out of danger’s reach but close enough for Sienna to swoop in and grab him if the need to protect him arises. It’s in the center of his pensiveness that he’s reminded of his purpose here anyway. Sienna finishes twisting the elastic bands of a surgical mask around her ears and places a delicate hand on the exam table in the center of the labs, a fabric cot laid out on top and sterilized parchment protecting it. It’s… thoughtful... soft and considerate in comparison to the sharp, jagged edges of the rest of the labs, and so at risk of being ripped to shreds. Vergil almost swivels and exits the room out of pure spite but he did, after all, promise to heed Sienna on his health this time. He doubts she’s a doctor of Agnus’ caliber but he’ll take her kindness over Agnus’ experience any day. 

Just this once, Vergil assures himself, he’ll submit to the stark, silver rooms, terrified as he is. He’s elected to put his very fragile and fraying hope in humanity again, he has a foolish yearning that she won’t betray it. Cautiously, he slithers onto the exam table, so used to the gnawing chill of the gurneys he’s usually strapped to, he’s almost taken aback by the gentle padding and Sienna’s self-assurance that he won’t need restraints. 

Sienna starts slow, pausing at the show of tension his muscles put on when the small, medical scissors drift near his skin. She holds them directly in front of his eyes, gesturing to their edges, and patiently explains how she’s going to use them as if she’s talking to a scared, small child. Vergil won’t disclose his emotions but he appreciates the gesture, he finds it comforting as it swirls in with the soothing tone of her voice. Sienna’s fingers curl around the hem of his shirt, making way for a chilly breeze as it rolls across his stomach until it reveals the beginnings of his sutures. She gingerly tugs at one of the threads, testing their hold. Though she realizes Vergil’s constantly in a state of discomfort no matter what she does, she still checks his countenance for any sign of pain. The split blade slides underneath the first thread, kicking off a pattern of pulling and snipping and clearing the strings away. 

Vergil does his best to hang onto the pattern and how it feels underneath his skin.  _ Tug, shhk, pull. Tug, shkk, pull.  _ But against his own will, he can sense himself slipping away, his surroundings distorting as his vision spirals and his hearing rings.  _ Tug, shhk, pull. Tug, shhk, pull. Stay here,  _ he commands himself. Yet he draws out of the physicality of his body, no way to fight it. 

Then, something sweet spreads out across his taste buds. Vergil’s eyes fly open, landing first on the absence of his own shirt, then on Sienna, whose honey brown eyes are awash with worry. He swirls his tongue over the hard, smooth stone in his mouth, eyebrows furrowing while he debates spitting it out. 

“It’s candy,” Sienna explains. “Can you tell me what it tastes like?” 

Vergil allows himself a moment to wonder what she’s doing and whether she’s poisoning him before he remembers he’s supposed to be putting his faith in humanity again. He sucks on the candy, getting a feel for its stickiness and the way it clacks against his teeth. It’s citrusy, a mild, stinging spice dancing on his tongue, saccharine like pure sugar and aromatic like basil. He’s tasted this before. When chewed on it for his mother. 

“Anise?” He begins with a bit of uncertainty. “It’s kind of like licorice but spicier.” 

“Good, what else can you tell me?” 

They go the rest of the night like this, Sienna removing his sutures while occasionally asking him to describe a type of candy (sticky, chewy, sickly sweet) she brought for him to try, or the sensation of the cot underneath him (in between hard and soft), or the sights (stark grey) and smells (disinfected, burning) of the labs. He doesn’t understand the purpose, but he plays along with her until the end of the procedure. 

As a reward—which, frankly is kind of a riot, all things considered, he should smack Gabriel for using that word but Vergil’s digressing- As a reward, Sienna buys him ten minutes to hold Nero somewhere safe and secluded. He doesn’t fuss or coo or play with the teddy bear Nero has loved to dirty stains in such a short amount of time. He does, however, on a whim, reach out with his powers, yanking on the demonic core embedded into the child. 

Nero immediately begins to sob, his tiny face scrunching up as a wave of angry wailing spills from him. It injects pure panic into Vergil’s veins, hot and bleeding and frothing like a boiling sea crashing against a cliff face. His eyes flick to the door, expecting Sienna or Gabriel to burst in at any moment, then back to Nero bundled up in his soft blanket. His movements are surprisingly strong for something so tiny. He’s just the length of Vergil’s forearm and he fits there perfectly, like the final piece of a puzzle. With his cacophonous crying, however, it’s hard to find even a modicum of comfort in the thought. Vergil begins to shake, fear clogging up his throat and putting a stopper on any rational thought that tries to form in his brain. He shakes his head and grits his teeth, begging for some kind of solution to manifest. He glances again to the door, helpless, wondering perhaps if someone will come to his aid, even the slightest flutter of Sienna’s presence might soothe him. But he’s left on his own, like always. 

The brisk rattling of something outside the doors jolts him. Sienna's and Gabriel’s voices echo off the wall as they shout something, either at each other or at a third party. The adrenaline-induced panic flooding him now is one he’s used to. It’s combative and aching, screaming at him to stand up and fight. For himself, for his name, to be worthy of both. As he braces himself against the wall, debating how many opponents he can take on with Nero in his arms, Sienna’s and Gabriel’s argument rises and makes itself clear. 

“We need to see this through until the end!” Sienna shouts. The rest of their discussion falls on deaf ears. 

A cold splash of clarity washes over Vergil. He’s not quite alone this time. He has Nero. This innocent, oblivious child who now shares his power. He can’t account for the rest of his family but he has… friends. 

Vergil frowns. 

_ Friends.  _

It’s such a foreign word that leaves an acrid taste on his tongue but there’s a burning lucidity gradually drowning it out. He hasn’t known the signora or the general for long, but brief flashes of their company drift through his mind. Gabriel’s expression bathed in light as he shifts himself to obscure Vergil from view, waving aside a passing patrol. Sienna’s joyful and ringing laughter, humming, singing. Her lullaby is as clear as the sky on a cloudless day. 

Nero’s pained crying breaks through the reverie. As the solution to calm this howling storm suddenly reveals itself, a frigid tenseness settles down on Vergil’s shoulders. He hasn’t sung since he was a child, working to learn the duet his mother only performed on the rare moments their father valsed the floor of the music room, home from one of his jaunts out to the demon realm. But as Nero’s hiccupy sobs suddenly rise an octave, he decides it’s worth a shot. If it’s worked in the past, it might work now. 

“Fai la ninna, fai la nanna,” Vergil whispers out, his voice trembling but resolutely possessed by Sienna’s gift for lulling the beating hearts around her into sweet surrender. His own is raspy and grating due to abuse, he scarcely uses it for much other than growling and roaring when his defenses are penetrated. It could never compare to the smooth, dolce timbre he’s grown to love and hope for on his nights alone with the signora. He sings nonetheless, wincing when he misses the notes. “ Con'sto figlio non c'è più pace~” 

He can’t recall all the lyrics to mind but he sings what he can remember from Sienna’s graceful swaying, letting him grasp onto her glowing halo as the only source of light. As simple and indistinctive as this lullaby is, Nero gradually begins to stop crying and slip into slumber, his big bright eyes watching Vergil with all the wonder of the world as they blink and soon fall shut. He mumbles and nestles against the rumbling in Vergil’s chest then falls asleep. Then, as a weight lifted, Vergil sighs out, silently slashing and snarling at the guilt curling around him like wild vines. 

**\---**

Gabriel works quickly, far too quickly for anyone except Sienna to be comfortable with it. He bursts into the dungeons, riddled with sweat and carrying alarm in every fiber of his being. His eyes bore into Vergil’s as his mouth wraps around the syllable for the ritual’s fast approaching date. Vergil hears it but he can’t recall it to mind, the experiments from today have drained his body of more than what’s ever been taken from him. He can barely straighten out his vision, twisting and spinning around to become a blur of black stone and lantern light, much less his own thoughts. 

The only thing he remembers is the bone-deep chill settling into him all over again.

**\---** ****

**Three Days Remaining**

Dr. Agnus makes the fatal mistake of leaving the Yamato in his private laboratory, one night, while he steps out for a moment. It’s on this dark night, deep in the bowels of the laboratory, that Vergil reaches the peak of ridiculousness. Balanced on top of Gabriel’s shoulders as he scrambles to reach the ledge of a high window, he gripes at the general for being the reason his powers are so drained he can’t even make a simple leap so far up. They could be caught at any moment, Gabriel abetting Vergil’s most recent escape attempt, and the absurdity of the situation is lost on them both. 

“Sorry, for doing my job,” Gabriel grinds out. 

Vergil growls as his fingers grab onto the sill. 

“You are not forgiven,” he grunts as he heaves himself up, using one free hand to unlatch the one window, designed solely for aesthetic situated above the door. 

“You know,” Gabriel trails off, habitually peering down both ends of the corridors for unwanted intruders. “You don’t have to express yourself so violently. Have you ever tried, I don’t know, crying? That might put you more in my favor.”

“Crying?” Vergil asks, the severe amount of offense in his voice palpable enough to touch. He teeters a bit as the window slides out of his grasp. “Why would I ever cry?” 

“Oh, I don’t know.” Gabriel fights to regain control of Vergil’s rapidly slipping balance. He’s almost appalled by how little Vergil likes dealing with his memories and the subsequent problems that arise with them. He’d been joking when he mentioned his favor but now, he’s plenty concerned for Vergil’s health. Which is kind of ludicrous, all things considered, and he should probably do something about that but right now time and consequences are universal constructs that don’t exist. “Probably because you’re traumatized? I mean, Dr. Agnus-” Gabriel grunts, hauling Vergil closer to the wall. “-dissected you. It’s okay to be sad that happened.” 

_ “Sad?!”  _ Vergil hisses. “Perish the thought. I merely want your foolish doctor to meet his maker.” 

_ ‘Oh, I’m sure he will. Soon enough, he’ll get what’s coming to him.’ _

The window screeches unrepentantly as Vergil pushes it up and all but scrabbles for better purchase. He slides through the small gap he’s made into the next room over, wriggling around like a worm as he desperately tries to claw his way to the goalpost. Gabriel stares up at him in almost stunned disbelief while the rest of Vergil’s body slinks through and suddenly disappears. Then, to cap off this wonderful fever dream, a cacophonous crash rings out, muffled by the walls on the other end, soon followed by a slew of pissed, demonic screeching. 

At this point, Gabriel should have a better grasp on the nitwit of a boy he’s aiding in his escape because surely he’s more mature than Gabriel thinks and not  _ a teenager  _ like the official reports from the manor in Redgrave are leading him to believe. Then a victorious holler echoes off the walls as Vergil reclaims the Yamato and proceeds to destroy whatever else Agnus was keeping in that room, at which point Gabriel throws the rest of his faith in this child’s maturity and the vicar’s self-righteous preaching in the garbage bin with a fond smile. 

A militia of marching knights snatches Gabriel’s attention. He veers behind him to find one of the knights' patrols swinging by, possibly drawn by Vergil making so much damn noise. With quick, jerking movements, he plunges into the room and hastily avoids the Judgment Cut Vergil aims at him with reckless abandon by dropping to the floor and sliding straight into a pile of wrecked tables and shelves. Gabriel scrambles upright just enough to shoot a darkened scowl at the boy. 

“Shit, I thought you were someone else-  _ wait. The door was unlocked?!” _

Gabriel doesn’t deign to answer that question. Instead, he makes a grab for Vergil and the Yamato, scrambling over the wreckage in an attempt to get both under control and lie his way out of their predicament. The following sounds of beakers being crushed and Vergil swearing at him like he’s a delinquent fill the otherwise quiet laboratories. As Gabriel peels Vergil off of the floor, hissing something about keeping up the act, it comes aware that this is the tightest space he’s ever been thrown into, and he’s had to face a few high-level devils on his own. He swerves Vergil straight into a headlock, his other hand wrapped tight around the Yamato, and pushes them both out the door only to be greeted by retreating footsteps as they steer clear of the mad doctor’s telltale grin. 

_ ‘Cowards, the lot of them,’  _ Gabriel thinks as his stare immediately angles upward to meet Agnus's acumen. 

“Ah, general,” Agnus sneers. “I see you’ve protected the Yamato from this demon. You have my… _ thanks. _ ” 

It’s worth noting in Gabriel’s mind how little he cares because Agnus certainly doesn’t sound remotely gracious of his efforts. His spine snaps into a rigid pole as Agnus relieves him of the Yamato and waltzes around the duo to rehide the damned weapon. Mirror gaping looks from both Vergil and Gabriel follow Agnus down the veins of the laboratories until he’s well out of sight. Several moments of shock strung tight across the area lance through the walls and corners when Vergil finally breaks, drowning in a delirium of subdued chuckling and, if Gabriel’s ears don’t deceive him, something that sounds a little too much like relief for him to be comfortable. 

“Seriously?” Gabriel asks. 

The absurdity of the situation is still lost on them both. 

**\---**

**Two Days Remaining**

Gabriel says it’ll be a while before he can find the vault Dr. Agnus has stuck the Yamato and the amulet in, so everyone is resigned to waiting.

More often than not, Vergil ends up out in the courtyard, his back against the grass, warm air rolling over his skin as it ghosts in from between the sea and the stars, mimicking the long, waking nights he spent as a child unable to sleep for fear of ambush. There’s a faint howling in the distance but every time he shifts to respond, Gabriel raises a hand to assure him that there’s nothing the demons can do to pass the wards and this part of the courtyard is a blindspot in the patrols. Ironic as it is, he’s safe here. 

The breath in Vergil’s lungs cycle in and out in a rhythm nearly forgotten, his gaze lingers on the twinkling stars, tracing the invisible lines between the constellations. It can’t be anything less than his imagination when he makes out what seems to be two figures, small in stature, holding hands, and it can’t be anything more than a buzzing annoyance when he hears his brother’s high, innocent laugh echoing in his memories. 

“You have two children?” Vergil says suddenly, too fatigued to curse the demons that possessed his tongue. 

Gabriel turns to stare at him, a calculating drone flitting about him as if wondering how Vergil would know that. He bides his time, barren of words before his story-generous wife occurs to him. He seems to silently despair of her loose lips for a moment before letting out a sigh of resignation. 

“Yes,” he breathes out, the regular, guarded wariness plaguing his tone. 

“What are their names?” Vergil asks then hastily adds. “I’m not a demon who gains power from names.” 

Gabriel eyes him with great suspicion as if he can’t bring himself to believe him. He looks up at the stars, leaning back as far as his head will go, lips pursed as he sinks deep into his mind, then he chances a look back at Vergil, who has nothing on in his countenance to suggest he’s either lying or telling the truth. He searches, fruitless as that endeavor may be, for some sort of sanctuary in Vergil’s question but in the end, it’s some form of surrender that drives his answer. Vergil can tell, he’s seen it in himself plenty of times.

“My son’s name is Credo,” Gabriel says, leaning forward to place his chin into his hands. “He’s nine, far too serious for his age.” He pauses as a slow, disinclined smile crosses his features. “Then there’s Kyrie. Little more than a year old. She drives her brother crazy.” 

There’s a beat of silence before Vergil speaks, unwilling to admit that he’s thinking of his childhood and of all the ways Dante pressed his buttons, shuttered him up a wall or a tree like a squirrel just to avoid sparring. He remembers blowing up like an overboiling kettle when he found Dante’s name scribbled into his favorite poetry book. In his head, he sees two red-headed, brown-eyed children bounding around, raveling themselves in Sienna’s skirts, shouting at each other as siblings are wrought to do. 

“She’s a mischief-maker?” Vergil asks. 

“She’s an artist, drew on the wall last week.” There’s another beat. “In permanent ink.”

In spite of himself, Vergil snorts at the picture that evokes. 

**\---**

**One Day Remaining**

Vergil grounds himself with the pain of the day’s experiments, reveling in it like its pleasure. He skims his hands along the cracked stone of the cell floors, trying to burn a hole into the ceiling with only his eyes while his tongue rolls over the hard caramel candy Sienna slipped to him before he was escorted back to his cell. It’s doing a fantastic job of keeping his soul bound to his body. Absently, his fingers find the healing scar on his front, buzzing with the pleasant tingle of Sienna’s touch as she nurtured him. The sardonic words of the general float around his head, spacey and untamable, soft and loving in the grasp of his children’s love. There’s a forceful way the behavior vies to be acknowledged in Vergil’s mind. They want to help him. Even after so much time has passed, he can barely handle the information.

Gabriel has no grounds to lie, Vergil has discovered, and if the light tapping on his forearm as a gaggle of knights dragged him back down to the dungeon was anything to go by, then that means Gabriel’s quick work has paid off. He found the Yamato. It might be the onslaught of experiments today causing his dizziness—after all, Dr. Agnus finally succeeded in drawing his blood with minimal fuss and it’s put a damper on Vergil’s mood—but there’s a minuscule part of him nearly plump with optimism. 

The doors to the dungeon open as the silhouettes of his two partners in crime slink through. Vergil sits upright, hovering by the door as soon as the jingle of the keys filters into his hearing. 

This is it. Tonight, he finally leaves this wretched hellhole. 


End file.
